


The Illusion that One Can Get Things Right

by umbrellaless22



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ableist Language, Alcohol, BDSM, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant (ish), Harry Potter Next Generation, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Pet Names, Professor Draco Malfoy, Separated Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Slow Burn, a lot of long talks, and really there is not a ton of smut, but not high protocol stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 104,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellaless22/pseuds/umbrellaless22
Summary: Blindsided by Ginny's sudden departure from his life, Harry struggles to care for his family—replete with a new baby. The situation plummets from disarray to pandemonium just as Draco Malfoy arrives to drop Scorpius off for a visit, because of course it does.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 470
Kudos: 779





	1. One - Harry

**Author's Note:**

> So, a few warnings:  
> 1\. I haven't read anything past the Deathly Hallows, so the whole next gen will be OOC/canon non-compliant and likely based off of whatever I have garnered from other fics over the years. Oh, and their ages might be a little off, but should be close to accurate. Also, I haven't read the epilogue for ages so this will also likely not be totally epilogue compliant, just generally so. 
> 
> 2\. It might seem a bit Ginny-bashing at the beginning, but I will seek to make her at least somewhat sympathetic in time. 
> 
> 3\. My update schedule will definitely not be what it was over the summer, but I will try to post a chapter/week or so. (I will also try to keep this fic at a more reasonable length).
> 
> 4\. Rating may go up, not sure if this will be a smutty fic or not at this point! Edit: it will 😅. But for the record: while what smut there is is E-rated, there is very little of it in this story, and easy to skip over if you would rather!
> 
> Title from: "Art, unlike life, permits do-overs: the illusion that one can get things right with craft and persistence." — Kahn Man

When the wards went off, Harry was making beans on toast, cradling a fussy Remy to his chest with one hand, and trying not to grind his molars as Al and Jamie screamed at each other in the drawing room over Merlin-knew-what. 

Harry cursed for the hundredth time that day. It earned him a reproachful look from Lily, who was organizing pots and pans into a makeshift drum kit far too close to his feet. 

“Lily, love, maybe you could take that somewhere else?” Harry asked, yelling over the shrieking siren of the wards and very nearly dropping the baby and not the spatula onto the counter. 

“I can’t, Dad,” Lily insisted. “I need the acoustics.”

“Of course you do,” Harry muttered, hurrying to the drawing room. 

“Someone’s trying to Floo in!” Al announced excitedly, when Harry entered the drawing room, tripping over somebody’s trainers. Al’s black hair was mussed even more than usual, and his nose was trickling blood. Jamie was lounging on the sofa, idly leafing through a graphic novel, as though he hadn’t just been having it out with his brother a moment ago. His flushed cheeks and twitching, irritated jawline would have given it away, had Harry not just listened to them squabbling for the entire morning. 

“The middle of the drawing room carpet is hardly the place for your trainers, Albus!” Harry said, cringing at his harsh tone. He needed to rein in his damn temper. He tried to remember how the hell he was supposed to switch off the wards’ incessant chiming. He haphazardly tried the spell he thought it might be.

“They’re not my trainers!” Al protested. “They’re Jamie’s!”

“I don’t care whose damn trainers they are, just get them out of the bloody way!” Harry exploded. Jamie and Albus eyed him warily. The baby burst into tears. 

With that, the wards dropped, revealing Scorpius Malfoy and his father, stepping out of the green flames and onto the soot-stained hearth. 

“Shit,” Harry said. 

“Wow, Dad, great manners,” Jamie said under his breath. Sarcasm had become second nature to the surly teen ever since Ginny took off. Harry could hardly blame him, but Merlin, it grated. “Hey, Professor,” Jamie greeted Malfoy. 

“James, Albus,” Malfoy gave the boys each a nod, before his eyes returned to Harry, who was attempting to shush Remy, still squalling in his arms. “Have I mistaken the date?”

“What?” Harry said, distractedly. “Al, sweetheart, would you go heat a bottle for your brother, please?”

“Why do I have to?” Al demanded, wiping at the blood under his nose with his sleeve. “It’s Jamie’s turn!”

“It is not, you conniving little—”

“Boys, that’s enough,” Harry said sternly. He was relieved he was able to keep from shouting again. “A bottle. Please.” 

Jamie slunk off to the kitchen. 

“Sorry,” Harry said to Malfoy. “You were saying?” He repositioned Remy and looked up. Merlin, how long had it been? There’d been the brief sighting at the Hogwarts Express in the autumn, but Harry hadn’t had a chance to really observe the man then. He was still lean, still pale and blond, and somehow less ferrety, which felt like an injustice. Harry knew he had worcestershire and baby vomit on his shirt, that he’d not showered in maybe three days, and he couldn’t actually remember how long ago he’d bought this particular pair of trousers, but they were certainly fitting more snugly now than they did when he had. Malfoy looked perfectly put together: his clothing smartly pressed, his face an immovable mask of poise, save for the amused quirk of one eyebrow. 

“I understood from your wife that Scorpius was invited to stay for a fortnight,” Malfoy said. His tone was inscrutable: not warm enough to be friendly, not cold enough to be dismissive. Civility, Harry supposed, but whether it was earnest or not, Harry certainly couldn't say. 

“Right,” Harry said, although this was completely new information to him. He accepted a bottle from Jamie and slid the rubber nipple into Remy’s mouth. “Well.” Merlin, he’d barely been able to admit his fucking failure to Ron and Hermione, and now he’d have to reveal it to Draco Malfoy? Hell. “Ginny’s left,” he stated, simply. 

“Beg your pardon?” Malfoy said sharply.

Harry tried not to think about the note he found on the kitchen counter four weeks ago, pinned in place by a large packet of baby formula that he hadn't had the first clue what to do with.

_Your love is a cage,_ it had said. Harry didn't know, maybe it was.

“I guess family life wasn’t quite what she was expecting,” Harry replied, trying to remain casual, as though mothers left their children with no warning all the time. _There was warning_ , he reminded himself. _There was ample warning. She was miserable: for months she was miserable, and you selfishly ignored it. This is on you._ “So she, ah, left.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said, and Harry thought he’d punch him if the next words out of his mouth were an apology. “I see,” he said instead. “Well, it seems you have your hands full, perhaps we could arrange for Scorpius and Albus to visit another time.” Malfoy put an elegant hand on his son’s shoulder, turning towards the fireplace.

“Dad!” Albus whinged, “Not fair, Mum said he could visit! I’ve been waiting for Scor basically all summer!”

_If you’ve been waiting all summer, why is this the first I’m hearing about it?_ Harry wanted to ask, but that was hardly fair. Albus was terribly clever, but organisation was not his strength, always lost in one new project or another. Seeing as Harry couldn't properly say what day it was, he could hardly condemn the kid. He wondered if Ginny had kept Scorpius Malfoy's visit from him accidentally or out of spite. It didn't matter, he supposed. Harry clocked Malfoy’s minute wince at the nickname before glancing around the disaster that was the drawing room. Quidditch gear littered every surface; Harry was sure he’d not even attempted a _Scourgify_ outside of dishes and kitchen counters since Ginny’s departure. 

“It’s fine,” he heard himself say. “He’s welcome to stay, I’m sure he can’t add to the chaos.”

Malfoy seemed to be examining him, and Harry shifted awkwardly, tipping the bottle further and listening to Remy suck contentedly. 

“Very well,” Malfoy announced, conclusion reached through some reasoning Harry couldn't hope to parse. He held out a small phial to Harry. “Scorpius has a medical condition. Please ensure he gets a drop of this under his tongue every evening.”

“Oh,” Harry replied. He was somehow surprised, as though Malfoy revealing his son’s illness was an unexpected vulnerability. That was foolish, he knew. Malfoy was just looking out for his child. “Sure. Anything else I should know?”

“He knows the warning signs. If he feels an attack coming on, he will let you know. The paediatric healers at St. Mungo’s know his history, should you need to take him there. I will, unfortunately, be difficult to contact for the duration. I spend much of August gathering supplies for the school year.”

It seemed a reasonable thing for a potions master to do, so Harry just nodded. “Right, sure thing. A drop under the tongue every evening, straight to St. Mungo’s if something’s amiss. I’ll see to it. Oh—should I notify his mother or his grandparents? If that happens, I mean?”

“No,” Malfoy said. He did not elaborate. Harry couldn’t help it; his gaze flicked to Malfoy’s bare left ring finger. Interesting.

Malfoy pressed a feather-light kiss to his son’s cheek. “Listen to Mr. Potter, please, Scorpius. I’ll return in a couple of weeks.” He nodded to Harry and the other boys. With that, he tossed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the fire. After a crisp “Malfoy Manor", he disappeared. 

Harry was just trying to staunch the acute onslaught of humiliation at the whole exchange when Lily came running into the drawing room. “Daddy!” She said, her little nose wrinkling, “Something’s burning.”

Harry cursed for the hundred-and-first time: the bloody beans.


	2. Two - Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: alcohol use, ableist language

“What god did I appease enough to draw you out of your lair?” Pansy Parkinson murmured in Draco’s ear. He’d been more focused on his martini than on the rest of the pub, and he startled. Pansy laughed: a tinkling sound that seemed out of place in her rather robust chest. It looked even more robust than usual. Draco rose to kiss her cheek, and shifted around to the other side of the table to pull out her chair.

“Another potion?” He asked, an eyebrow raised. 

Pansy shimmied, making the silver fringe of her dress dance across her thighs. She sank gracefully into the proffered chair, and Draco returned to his own. “How can you be so gentlemanly and so catty all at once?” She demanded. “My body is my own business, thank you very much.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, yes, how boorish of me to comment on something you'll demand admiration for in as little as three minutes.”

“Not that you appreciate them properly," Pansy lamented.

“I appreciate that you appreciate them,” he assured her. “My only concern is for your back.”

“When did you become so dull and practical? This is how a divorcée is supposed to live, darling. I spend all of Calvin’s money on breast augmentation potions and exquisite clothing and the hotels to which I draw my nightly conquests. You think you’re my last stop this evening? Merlin, no. I’ve only been up three hours, plenty of time to live! Not my fault that instead of celebrating your freedom you spend your days sulking and, oh, what? Plotting? Scheming? What _do_ you do with yourself, Draco?”

“I parent,” Draco reminded her. 

Pansy curled a glossy red lip. “Oh yes, that. But not this evening? Astoria’s not…”

“No,” Draco said shortly. “No change on that front. Actually, you’ll like this. My son is staying with the Potters.”

“As in _Harry_ Potter?” 

“Are there other Potters in our acquaintance?”

“Hm, would we call Potter an acquaintance?” Pansy challenged. “Feels more like a former acquaintance, I’d say.”

“That is what interests you about all this?”

“Of course not. I’m hanging on your every word,” she promised, flagging down a server and ordering some sugar-laden frou-frou drink. “Tell me everything.”

Draco stirred the olives in his martini. “There’s not much to tell, really,” he admitted. “Scorpius and one of Potter’s boys are friendly; Potter’s wife said he was welcome to come stay while I’m in Brazil.”

“That’s hardly gossip at all, darling. I’m terribly disappointed.” The server placed a tumblr full of some violently red substance on the table before her. Pansy gave him a dazzling smile and thanked him before returning her gaze to Draco. “Well? How was he? Still fit? Still got those, you know, eyes?”

Draco swallowed. Potter _was_ still fit, he’d been irritated to notice. Filled out, and a bit softer with the exhausted haze of parenthood, but tall and striking, even with the few days' growth of beard and a truly revolting t-shirt. As for his damn eyes—Draco knew exactly what Pansy meant, but he refused to acknowledge it, not to her and certainly not to himself. “Both eyes seemed present and accounted for,” he said. “But he was not well, really. His wife’s left him.”

“Ginny Weasley?” Pansy gasped, grabbing at the side of their table for dramatic effect. “But she was smitten!”

“Not any more, apparently. New baby and everything, and Potter seems quite on his own.” Draco tried to pretend he didn’t enjoy this, but it had been ages since he’d had any gossip of note to share with Pansy, and it felt a bit like old times: late nights, drunk on gin martinis, talking shit in the pub. It had been a short, bright period in his life, before he’d made a desperate grasp for respectability and married Astoria. Astoria, who wept any evening he spent away until he’d stopped going out altogether. Pansy was right; he had become a bit of recluse.

“Oh, you must have loved that,” Pansy grinned, clasping her hands in front of her chest like some sort of villain in a fairy story. 

Draco went to say something typically biting, but the words stuck in his throat. He’d felt a bit smug that first moment, stepping into Potter’s disaster of a drawing room. James and Albus had been fighting, that much was clear, and Potter was a frightful mess: exhausted and filthy, holding the screeching baby in one practiced arm. But then he’d seen the self-doubt, the humiliation, the resignation—all expressions Draco desired to instill as a boy—but now, well. Draco didn’t think he pitied the man, but he was bothered by the wrongness of it all. Nothing ever vanquished Harry Potter, and yet here he was, defeated. “I didn’t actually,” he admitted. “He’s not coping, I don’t think. Looked a bit like a scolded retriever.”

Pansy cocked her head, examining him. Her long golden tresses flowed over her shoulder. Draco wondered idly what she’d done to make them gleam like that. He’d have to ask her. 

“Anyway,” he continued. “Poor bastard seems quite far in over his head.”

He shrugged as if to change the subject but Pansy stopped him. “But you left Scorpius with him anyway?”

“He’s tired and a bit glum, Pans, he’s not incapable. Besides, where else do you propose I leave him? My parents, last I checked, were still in Azkaban, I can’t trust Astoria’s parents not to let her see him, Daphne’s on holidays of her own. I can’t take him with me, and I need these supplies to do my job.”

“I can always take him,” Pansy said quietly. “I do go on, but I hope you know that.”

“You’re enjoying your life,” Draco replied tiredly. “Kids are not your kind of accessory.” A flash of anger crossed Pansy’s face and Draco, realising his mistake, reached out, curling a palm over her forearm. “I know you would, Pans,” he said. “You’re a proper friend, not to mention the only one I have. But Scorpius has been looking forward to spending time with Potter’s brood all summer, and honestly, I think he might provide a distraction for them all. Potter’s older two have never gotten on; I’m sure them being at each other’s throats isn’t doing him any favours.”

“I know it’s been years, but I still find it impossible to believe that you teach Potter’s children. You spend more time with them than he does. If they are half as sanctimonious as he was, it can’t be a delight.”

Draco examined his drink, considering. “Sanctimonious isn't exactly right. James, the oldest, is obnoxious, popular and a bit unctuous with the faculty. Not a very pleasant child. I’m sure he was spoiled beyond repair.”

Pansy laughed, tapping a long nail to her chin, “Now, who from school does that sound like?”

Draco felt his face heat, thinking about the ridiculousness that were his schooldays. “Yes, well. Maybe there’s hope for him yet, then. He can grow to be an infamous shut-in with a mad wife and a sickly child.”

“One drink in and you’re already a fountain of self-pity,” Pansy chided. “Your wife’s not mad, she’s sick, but we’re not having that argument again. And besides, she’s your ex-wife now. Perhaps in Brazil you will finally take a lover. Yes, I can see it now, Paulo will coax you out of your miserable solitude, and you will realise that both Scorpius and Astoria have a much harder time of it than you.”

“No maternal nurturing from you, I take it,” he noted dryly. 

Pansy scoffed. “You’ll have to ask Paulo for that, too.”

“There will be no Paulo, nor any taking of lovers.”

“And why not?” Pansy insisted. “You going to stay celibate forever?”

“I’m not—” he protested but Pansy interrupted him. 

“That anonymous shit doesn’t count.”

“It fills a need.”

“Does it?” Pansy fired back. 

“Like you have a leg to stand on when it comes to anonymous flings,” Draco pointed out, more coldly than intended. 

Pansy only smiled. “Yes, darling, but we’re hardly the same. I’m alone because I love it. You’re alone because you feel you somehow deserve it.”

“Hardly. Other people are a terrible inconvenience. They’re incompetent and irritating and dreadfully dull. I’ve work to do and a child to raise, and that should more than satisfy me.”

“Perhaps,” Pansy agreed. “But it doesn’t.”

  
_**/// ///** _  
  


Draco reviewed his collection kit. It was a sturdy, burlap apparatus, soft-sided so it could fold up and fit in his satchel. Each item was held in place by an expanse of elastic: forceps, tongs, and blades of varying sizes, a long, narrow whetstone, and shears. He arranged them by type and by height, each instrument carefully polished. Looking at them soothed him. He also packed assorted glass phials, rubber and cork stoppers, and small metal tins. It was his first trip to the Amazon, and he was looking forward to collecting specimens himself, where he could confirm the time of harvest and quality. He’d revised the year seven curriculum over the summer, and quality ingredients made for better potions, and better potions made for more engaged students, he’d found. 

He’d hoped Scorpius could accompany him on his travels this year, but it was not to be. The heavy canopy of the rainforest interfered with apparition magic, and he couldn’t trust he could get Scorpius help in time, should he need it. And so he’d left him with Potter. Draco frowned, shutting his carrying case with a resonant click. His thoughts had been returning to Potter all morning. Maybe Pansy was right, maybe it was wrong to leave Scorpius there. Not that he expected his son to be a bother—no, he had always been an easy child—but it was selfish, surely. Draco scoffed at himself. Since when had he concerned himself with being selfish? It was the very quality that landed him where he was, where he wanted to be: the potions master at Hogwarts, with a full supply cupboard and research hours at his disposal. He could give Scorpius an education without missing him much of the year. No, he was quite content, but he’d had to take that bit of success for himself. No one had been offering a former Death Eater respectable employment. He’d had to prove he was the best: the most competent, the most skilled and masterful, until they’d have been fools to hire a lesser wizard. 

Draco wondered idly what Potter was doing for work. He'd gone into magical law enforcement, Draco believed, but he must be on some sort of leave. Potter would have said if he'd be leaving the children with someone else during the day, surely. Draco felt another unwelcome thrum of uncertainty. But no, it would all be fine, and he'd had so few options. Scorpius, for his part, didn’t want another option. Usually so mild-mannered and understated, the child had been bursting with anticipation for the trip. His things must have been packed three days early. Draco couldn’t say he was wholly surprised. At the castle, he’d rarely seen Scorpius without the Potter boy, from very nearly the first day. What he couldn’t quite determine, was who led their little band of two. Albus was more outspoken—although not to the extreme of his insufferable elder brother—but Scorpius, although quiet, was not unresisting when it mattered. Draco couldn’t reconcile it at all with his own hierarchical childhood friendships. Well, he decided as he set the wards on the manor and departed for the portkey to his contact’s office in Brazil, he didn’t need to deconstruct the friendship of a couple of children. Scorpius at last seemed happy, and even Draco wasn’t petty enough to let an old rivalry stand in the way of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Three - Harry

“Harry, you still with us?” 

Harry half-lurched off the sofa where he’d sat just to take a moment, realising too late that Remy was in his arms. He fumbled the baby helplessly only to hear a levitation spell uttered, suspending the infant in mid air. Remy squealed and Harry scooped an arm under his back and head before collapsing back onto the sofa, running his free hand through his over-long, greasy hair. Only then he looked up to see a stranger in his drawing room. 

“Who—”

The man’s features shimmered like water on a lake, and resettled into something more familiar. 

“Teddy!” Harry breathed, his adrenaline spike dissipating. He looked helplessly up at the tall, lean young man, whose long, dirty blond hair was pulled back into an effortless knot at the back of his head. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Understandable,” Teddy grinned, reaching for Remy who Harry happily relinquished. “I only sent about four owls.”

“Oh, I must have them somewhere,” Harry patted the pockets of his trousers absently. Teddy eyed a small end table overflowing with post. 

“You think?” He asked, nodding to the heap with a pointed gesture. He peered at the baby in his arms and cooed softly. His lopsided grin faltered as he surveyed the room, then Harry. “What’s happened?” he asked. 

Harry sagged. He’d not told anyone, save for Ron and Hermione. The morning he’d found the note he’d be frantic, convinced that someone had taken Ginny, maybe someone he’d landed in Azkaban years ago. He’d called Ron in a panic, early, before sunrise. But one look at Ron’s face, and he knew. Ginny hadn’t been taken, it wasn't some nefarious ploy. She’d left. 

He’d barely spoken to any of the Weasleys since. He’d refused Floo calls from Molly for days, until at last he’d answered, quickly calling Jamie in to speak with his grandmother and excusing himself. He couldn’t bear to have them all looking at him, assessing him, piecing together all the flaws that made Ginny feel so helplessly trapped. 

Fresh shame crashed over him as Teddy stood before him; Teddy, who Ginny had gamely helped raise when Andromeda had taken ill ten years prior. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “I should have told you, it’s just, well, nevermind. Gin’s left. Said she’d had enough and took off.”

“What?” Teddy said, the forearm curved around the baby tensing. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry repeated. He leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. Merlin, he was tired. He couldn’t do this. 

“When?” Teddy asked. 

“Er,” Harry said, honestly not knowing how many days he’d been going at this whole family thing alone. “Late June? Just after the kids came home for the break. I guess she wanted to say goodbye.”

“That was six weeks ago!” Teddy sputtered. “She hasn’t been back?”

“No,” Harry answered. “I know she’s safe, Ron’s told me so. I don’t know where she is, I don’t need to know, but there's no foul play." He didn't admit that he almost wished there was, because that would mean she hadn't meant it, hadn't just up and gone and left them all devastated. "She just...couldn’t do all this, I suppose.”

“All this?” Teddy parrotted. “You mean her life?”

“My life,” Harry corrected him. “I had this dream for what I wanted it to be, but I think I knew she was unhappy. Deep down, surely I must have. I’m not sure she even really wanted children, not truly. She never said that, but I’m don't think family life was what she was expecting. And then Remy came along and—I didn’t force her to keep the baby. I wouldn’t do that, of course I wouldn’t. She just asked me if I wanted it and I answered honestly that yes, I did, but I told her I wouldn’t be angry or anything, and that I would respect her decision entirely. But I should have seen how much she’d wanted to leave this stage behind: the sleeplessness nights and the mess and the endless nappies. Merlin, what have I done?”

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Teddy said, shaking his head. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have regurgitated all that up on you.”

“It’s good that you did, because I have a couple things to say about it all,” Teddy said sternly. “One, Ginny has never been a pushover. I’m certain you didn’t pressure her, especially not intentionally. Whatever her motivations for keeping Remy, I’m certain it is a choice she made herself. And secondly, I’m not sure you’ve done anything. You’re the one who is still here.”

“Only because I made her home a place she couldn't bear to be.”

Teddy sighed, rocking the baby who’d started to fuss in his arms. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I know you two had it out from time to time, but you both have tempers, so that’s hardly surprising, and you always seemed to make up. She seemed content enough when I was here last. Did things get worse since I went away to uni?”

Harry slid his hands into his own hair, gripping at the roots to give it a satisfying tug. “I don’t know,” he said, finally. “Some days, I’d catch her staring out the window and I’d think I’d see some sort of, oh, I don’t know, longing, maybe. But I’d blink and it would be gone, and she’d smile and say something banal about the house or the kids or work. I never pressed her on it.”

“She always had the option of telling you," Teddy pointed out. "I grew up here; I never felt I couldn’t admit things to you, even when I knew I’d made a mess of something.”

It was reassuring to hear, Harry admitted. “Thanks, love,” he said, sinking back against the sofa cushions, and digging out a comic from under his thigh and tossing it aside. “Here, I can take Remy if you want to go say hello to the boys. Albus is forever scarpering off with Scorpius Malfoy, whispering madly and writing things in his notebook, but Jamie should be around. With any luck he’ll be a bit more pleasant with you than he is me.”

“Not taking well to Ginny being gone, I take it?”

“No,” Harry agreed. Merlin, he missed his boisterous, joyful son. He hated how he loathed the miserable, sulking thing that had replaced him; how Jamie’s hurt had left nothing but barbs and bitter defiance in its wake. “But you didn’t drive her off, so perhaps he’ll be more kindly disposed to you.”

“How about I watch Remy, and you go have a shower and a nap?” Teddy offered instead. “You look like hell, and you smell worse. I can visit with Jamie and hold a baby at the same time.”

For a moment Harry thought to turn down the boy’s generosity. After all, it was Teddy’s holiday, and he only had a month off before he’d head back to Germany to continue his magical language studies. But Harry was dead on his feet, with another month of four kids at home facing him, so he accepted the reprieve gratefully. 

“Yes, alright. Thank you,” he said, clapping Teddy warmly on the shoulder. “Oh, and Lily’s on a bit of a musical kick, so I’m sure she’d be thrilled if you volunteer to watch a concert. If you need me, you know where I’ll be.” A yawn overtook him and he grinned guiltily. “I owe you.”

Teddy looked up from the baby to meet Harry’s eyes. There was a soft, sad smile on his face that made Harry realise Teddy really had grown up. “No,” he said. “You really, really don’t.”

_**/// ///** _

After a kip and shower, and with Teddy occupying Lily and keeping an eye on the baby, Harry felt up to cooking dinner. He was chopping potatoes, watching Scorpius tear back and forth across the grass while Al observed from the walkway, notebook and quill in hand. It hadn’t been a hard decision to leave Number 12 after Jamie was born. Harry had been taken at once with this sprawling cottage in Somerset. The original building had rooms added in every direction like scattered bits of patchwork and Ginny had christened the place Eiderdown End. In the summer, Harry turned the garden into a makeshift quidditch pitch, where Jamie and Lily liked to race about on their brooms. Albus had never taken to flying. He instead liked to read a great deal, or poke about for insects under rocks, or crayfish in the stream, endlessly curious and forever popping into conversations when Harry thought he was elsewhere.

For the life of him, Harry couldn’t understand what the boys had been up to the last few days. Scorpius stopped suddenly, a hand raised to his chest, his pale cheeks aflame from the exertion. For a moment, Harry was terrified. He couldn’t just let Malfoy’s kid die in the garden. Then Scorpius started to speak. Harry didn’t know what the boy was saying—the glass was double-paned, and the two were standing a ways off—but Al seemed to be transcribing the words hurriedly. 

“Not beans on toast?” Jamie interrupted, swiping an apple from the dwindling fruit bowl. Merlin, Harry really needed to get out to the shops again. James wasn’t supposed to snack this close to dinner and he knew it, but he had that steel in his eyes, just daring Harry to call him on it. 

Harry couldn’t muster the energy. 

“Thought you lot had probably had enough of that,” he said instead, trying to keep his tone pleasant without forcing joviality.

Jamie snorted his agreement. 

“Listen, love,” Harry tried, hoping to broker some peace between them. Jamie’s gaze became impossibly icier, his shoulders tensing.

“Dad, just don’t bother, alright?” He muttered, and swept out of the room. Harry huffed miserably, and dumped the potatoes into the pot.

_**/// ///** _

“Yes, but _why_ are you studying languages? All that Latin, seems awfully dull,” Jamie said over dinner that evening. He was eying Teddy with good-natured disdain, having already ribbed him about what he called Teddy's man bun. Harry was thankful that at least the boy’s ire didn’t seem to extend beyond Harry himself. 

“Because I like them,” Teddy insisted with a grin. “They’re interesting, and besides, after one more year of studies, I get to set to work on a spell of my own creation.”

“Yes, but what will you _do_?” Jamie insisted. 

“I don’t know,” Teddy replied, unbothered. “Travel, write a book, turn around and teach languages myself, translate old texts, interpret, I’ll see where the wind takes me.”

“Hrm,” Jamie was not convinced. "Just doesn't seem very thrilling."

“Why do you play quidditch?” Teddy asked. 

“What?” Jamie looked affronted. “You played, too. It’s a good bit of fun, I like it.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to _do_ with it?” Teased Teddy. 

“Oh fine, fine, you’ve made your point,” Jamie relented, popping a potato in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. 

“Good dinner, Harry, cheers,” Teddy said. “How about you, then? What made you want to be an Auror?”

Harry had almost forgotten what civil conversation sounded like. “Oh!” He said, his gaze flicking to Jamie to see if the boy would once again be on the offensive, but he seemed placated enough, for now. “Er, I just didn’t know much of what else I would be good at, after the war. Didn’t quite reckon on there being quite so much paperwork.” Harry was on a parental leave for the time being, and he’d not really had time to miss his work. While his career had started out with boots on the ground, infiltrating and raiding underground Death Eater meetings, Ginny had talked him into something more mild when the kids arrived. He’d ended up in the Corruption of Magical Components branch of the department, and he felt more like a shipping clerk a lot of the time: fielding complaints about mismanaged or damaged goods. A great majority of the time, he simply settled disputes: there was very little law enforcement to be carried out at all. If he were honest with himself, it had been a long time since he truly enjoyed his work or even felt all that useful. For the most part, it was just interesting enough to keep him occupied, and paid well enough for them not to be too fastidious with the budget. It had felt comfortable, although not exactly compelling. 

He looked up to see Albus and Scoripus staring at him. 

“What is it?” He said, wiping his chin absently. 

The two boys shared an inscrutable look, then, as if as one, they returned their focus to their dinner plates. 

"Are you _sure_ , Scor?" Al hissed. 

"Well, I don't know, now do I?" Scorpius retorted, under his breath. Harry thought it might have been the first time he’d heard the boy say anything beyond please and thank you. 

"Your whole _situation_ really is infuriatingly opaque, you know," Albus informed his friend. 

"Would you shut up?" Scorpius insisted. 

“What were you two up to out in the garden, then?” Harry interrupted, trying to puzzle out this confounding conversation. Remy started fussing from his bassinet nearby, and Harry scooped him up, bouncing him on his hip while he hovered near the dinner table. 

“Science,” Al said, shortly. 

“Albus!” Scoripus protested.

“What? It's true.” Al replied, “We formulated a hypothesis and subjected it to rigorous experimental scrutiny.”

“And what hypothesis was that?” Teddy asked, clearly amused. 

“I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly tell you,” Albus answered. 

“It’s nothing unsafe, though, right?” Harry said, voice serious. “I don’t want you putting Scorpius at risk.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Scorpius,” Al insisted. “He’s not delicate like everyone thinks.”

“Shut up, would you?” Scorpius pleaded, wringing his serviette in his lap. 

“Albus, I mean it,” Harry warned. “If I find out you’ve been doing something foolish…”

Al sighed heartily, “Yes, Daddy, fine, we’ll be careful, stop worrying.”

Al rarely called him that anymore, not since Jamie had deemed it babyish. It tugged at Harry’s heart in a way that had Harry cursing himself as a terrible sap. He caught the swift upward jerk of Al’s mouth before the boy schooled it into a neutral expression. The little shit had done it on purpose, of course he had. Merlin save him from his own bloody children. 

_**/// ///** _

Harry had only just gotten Remy down when Lily snuck out of bed, padding into the drawing room with a pout. 

“What is it, LiLu?” he said, scooping her up onto his lap—another thing he’d not get to do for much longer. He once again was reminded how pleased he was they’d had Remy. He didn’t think he was ready for all his children to run headlong into independence. He’d still have one last baby, one last toddler. He'd always be grateful to Ginny for that.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lily said, her blue eyes serious. Merlin, she looked so much like Ginny that Harry almost wanted to look away. “I’m ten now, and I'll be headed to Hogwarts next year.”

“You are,” Harry agreed, half-hating the idea. "And you will indeed."

“And Remy’s only a baby.”

“He is.”

“Well. Jamie has a later bedtime than Al, and Al has a later bedtime than me, because they are older. I think that I should get a later bedtime than Remy, but he stays up the latest, and I don’t think that’s fair. I've thought a lot about this, and I'm confident that once you see things from my point of view, you'll agree.”

Harry chuckled kindly and stroked his daughter’s dark red hair. Merlin, when had it gotten so long? Was Harry supposed to arrange to have it cut? Harry didn’t even have a clue where he would take her. Ginny had always dealt with that in the past. Merlin, had Ginny even talked to Lily about her period and such? What age was that supposed to happen? He’d do it, of course he would, but fucking hell he felt like every day he was blindsided by another one hundred things he’d always just let Ginny deal with. No wonder she’d left.

“Dad?” Lily prompted. 

“Well, I think you’re a very bright little diplomat—every bit as impressive as your Auntie Hermione.”

“So I can, then?”

“Babies sleep differently than kids do, sweetheart,” Harry said gently. “Remy has his nap in the morning and again in the afternoon, so he is awake a little longer in the evening, is all. I’m not doing it to be unfair, and when he’s a little older, he’ll certainly be going to bed before you.”

“Hm,” Lily didn’t look impressed. “Well, maybe I could get an increase in my pocket money, then.”

“Now that is something we can discuss—in the morning. For now, it’s late, and you want to get some sleep so you can have a good day tomorrow, yeah?”

Lily gave him a hug and then another and then asked for a glass of water. She then said she thought she needed to brush her teeth again and asked if maybe she could have one more chapter in the book they were reading together, but finally she went to bed. Harry was happy enough to humour her. The first few days after Ginny left, Lily had been inconsolable at bedtime. It had broken Harry’s heart all over again, each time. 

_**/// ///** _

Harry was just sorting himself for bed when he heard the screams coming from Albus’ room. He raced down the hall, and burst through the door, wand at the ready. Al flew to him, curling into his side. Scorpius was trying to flatten himself against the wall alongside the little cot Harry had transfigured into Al’s room, whimpering. He was staring ahead at something Harry couldn’t see.

“I don’t know what happened,” Al whispered urgently. “We’d just fallen asleep and suddenly he sprung up, shouting. You’ve got to help him, Daddy.”

There was no trace of the evening’s manipulation this time. Al was genuinely upset, Harry knew. 

“It’s alright, love,” he said, more calmly than he felt. “I think Scorpius is just having a bit of a nightmare. Why don’t you go bunk with Teddy for a while, and I’ll get him settled down.”

Al looked conflicted for a moment before darting down the hall. 

“Scorpius,” Harry said, lighting his wand in the dark with a friendly orange glow. He kept his tone measured and sure. “You’ve given yourself a bit of a fright, but it’s alright now.”

The pale blond boy shriveled impossibly backwards. “Leave me alone,” he whispered. His face was towards Harry now, but he still didn’t seem to quite see him. “I’ll not tell you anything.”

“It’s alright,” Harry said, taking a step towards the cot. “You don’t have to say a word. Why don’t you just get yourself back in bed, how’s that?”

“Don’t come any closer!” Scorpius demanded, his voice shrill and high in a way that set the hairs on Harry’s arm on end. Harry held up his palms and lowered himself onto Al’s bed, a good distance away from Scorpius. Merlin, he thought, had he forgotten to give the child his medicine? But no, he'd administered it, he was sure of it. This wasn’t illness, it was just a nightmare. Harry’s own kids had always been rather solid sleepers, but he knew Rosie had given Ron and Hermione hell with night terrors for a while. 

“It's okay, I'm not going to,” Harry promised. “I’m just going to sit right here, how's that? You’re having a nightmare is all. You just need to get back under your covers. You’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” Scorpius whispered to that unseen presence. “I can’t tell you what you want, Father’s seen to that. And I won’t go with you, either. I’ll scream, I will.” The boy looked sick with terror and Harry had a terrible feeling that all this wasn’t just stemming from an overactive imagination. 

“I don’t want anything from you, sweetheart,” Harry promised. “And I won’t let anyone take you. You’re perfectly safe.”

Scorpius snapped his head in Harry’s direction, his focus sharpening. “Who’re you?”

“Just your mate’s dad. Just checking in on you.”

Scorpius nodded seriously. “And you’ll keep them away?”

“No one’s getting through me.”

Scorpius seemed to take that as fact, because he slithered down the wall and under one of the endless misshapen quilts Molly had made over the years. His little body relaxed and he stilled. 

Harry sighed with relief and got up to leave. 

“Mr. Potter?” Scorpius said, and Harry knew at once the kid was lucid now, sounding groggy and confused. “What’s happened? Where’s Al?”

Harry turned. “You had a nightmare,” he explained. “Screamed a bit and I think you spooked him. Are you alright now?” Harry again moved as if to cross the room. Scorpius flinched, and Harry froze, then stepped back. He didn't like the implications of that gesture.

“Oh,” Scorpius said, his face was pinched with nerves. “Did I say anything?”

“Nothing I could make sense of,” Harry said. “Do you remember anything?”

“I—No,” Scorpius gave a jerk of his head. Harry was quite certain it was a lie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” Harry attested. “Are you alright now?”

“Yes, of course. Just a silly nightmare.”

“If you’re sure. I’ll send Al back in. But Scorpius, you’ll let me know if you need anything? I know this place is ninety per cent chaos, but if I can help at all, I’d like to.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Scorpius said, his mask of manners falling firmly into place. “But I’m quite alright, I assure you.”


	4. Four - Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, who am I kidding, this story will contain smut because of who I am as a person. I will do my best to keep any smut clearly demarcated and easy to avoid for anyone who prefers to skip those bits!
> 
> This chapter does not contain smut, but it does reference sex and some vaguely kinky sexual preferences.

Prior to returning to Wiltshire, Draco had plans to visit the coast. Rudá, his guide, was a good-natured, sure-footed man, who chided Draco for his abysmal Portuguese and named the flora and fauna in his own language as they went. He shifted between the two languages frequently. Draco, who could barely follow the Portuguese, tried his best to mimic the man’s native names for the canna lilies and staff vines, but his efforts mostly left Rudá grinning at his failure. He took to calling Draco Boi-tatá, upon learning the meaning of his name. Draco suspected his more delicate stature made this a bit of a lark for Rudá, who had endless tales of the massive creature devouring local herds and bankrupting farmers. Rudá's own name, he explained, was from a deity renowned for his love-making. He was not subtle in his advances, and Draco didn’t rebuff them, vowing never to tell Pansy about her powers of divination, not that he didn't think she'd suss his indiscretions out in the end.

While perhaps a few years older than Draco, Rudá’s lifestyle made him a pleasure to watch and to touch. The man never seemed to wear a shirt, opting for well-worn linen shorts, or, on particularly hot days, a flowing turquoise garment which covered very little. He was not tall, but he was well built, muscles shaped by long years of navigating the landscape. Much of his skin was decorated with starkly lined tattoos, and more often than not, he had a lip full of tobacco. No matter the weather, he wore the same grubby trainers, hopping over stones and making a show of always having to wait for Draco to catch up. Draco found he didn’t mind the teasing, and they spent evenings under the stars, Rudá telling him the legends of his people, a small enclave of witches and wizards who’d magicked their homeland invisible with the coming of the Portuguese. 

“I should like to see it,” Draco mused, as he listened to Rudá outline how his community had changed and grown, watching and adopting technologies they found useful through the generations. Rudá himself had spent a few years in his youth in Salvador, but he'd returned to his people thereafter, preferring his hidden, independent nation. 

This made Rudá laugh again. “We have not let a white man step foot on our land in thousands of years, Boi-tatá. What makes you think you would be the first?”

Draco had no illusions of his being welcome there, so instead he enjoyed the stories and the company, along with the man’s attentive hands and mouth. Rudá was a generous lover, thorough and leisurely. Draco took it for what it was, admitting only to himself that he missed rough use at the hands of uncaring strangers, filling a need he couldn’t understand, but couldn’t allay, either. Rudá was too gentle, too considerate and concerned with Draco’s needs, when what Draco often wanted was to have those needs altogether ignored. 

Despite the mismatch of their desires, Draco arrived back in England feeling well-rested and renewed. He was quietly pleased with his refreshed stores, and some new interesting specimens with which he was curious to experiment. He spent his first evening back clarifying labels and storing and drying flora as necessary. He owled Potter to let him know he’d be by in the morning to collect Scorpius. He flew over the Manor grounds, admiring the dahlias and tithonias cultivated by his gardners. He determined he’d have Scorpius help him bottle the pollen for potions later that week. 

His bed felt overly soft compared to his weeks on a bedroll, but nevertheless, sleep took him easily.

_**/// ///** _

Draco arrived at Potter’s house to find a young man with sand-coloured hair sitting on the sofa flipping through a tome he had propped up on his knee. The little orange-haired baby was kicking it's pudgy legs on a play mat on the floor, chewing on a wooden block. He heard enthusiastic shouting from the garden and assumed that’s where Potter’s other children and Scorpius must be occupying themselves. 

“Professor!” said the man. Draco recognised the voice as belonging to Edward Lupin. It stood to reason he had not recognised the young Metamorphmagus, as his look was certainly more bohemian than it had been when Draco had known him at school. His chosen features today included a sharp, diamond jawline and a Roman nose. Gone were the apple cheeks, squared chin, and brown mop he commonly adopted at Hogwarts.

“I’m not your professor any longer,” Draco reminded him, but then didn’t quite know how to continue. He was not about to suggest Edward refer to him by his given name. He’d not minded the boy in school: he’d been well-liked, but a hard-worker, genuine, and interested in his studies. 

“‘Spose not,” the young man grinned, “but you’re still _a_ professor. I guess you’re here for Scorpius? Harry didn’t know when you’d be arriving.”

Draco wanted to make a comment about how he didn’t generally drop in on Potter for social calls, but he supposed the Lupin boy would know that, having been half-raised by the man. 

“I am. I sent an owl when I arrived home last night.”

Edward gave a guilty glance about the room. “Right, well, Harry’s a bit behind on his correspondence, I think. With the baby and everything.”

The drawing room appeared every bit as windswept as it had two weeks prior: sporting equipment, parchment, clothing, and books strewn every which way. Draco doubted there was something with which Potter was _not_ behind. 

“Anyway, he said if you came by to tell you not to worry and it’s not serious, but Scorpius was feeling a little off this morning so he took him to St. Mungo’s just to be safe.”

Draco had not been expecting that. Scorpius’ condition was well-managed on his current dosage. It had been several months since he’d had an episode. 

“Off how?” He demanded shortly. “Potter was instructed to give the boy a potion—”

“He did!” Teddy insisted. “I’ve been here a week and he’s not missed an evening, Professor, I swear.”

Edward had never been one for telling tales, and Draco had a difficult time believing him to be dishonest now, even in the name of protecting his godfather. 

“Very well,” Draco said. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Not long,” Edward replied. “Maybe a half hour ago or so?”

Draco thanked the boy for his information and stepped back into the Floo.

_**/// ///** _

By the time Draco arrived at St. Mungo’s, Scorpius had been triaged and had a room in the paediatric ward. He entered the room without knocking and to find his son sitting up on the hospital cot. Potter, looking rumpled but still more well rested than their last encounter, was seated on a chair. He rose when Draco entered, giving him an awkward sort of smile. 

“Malfoy,” he said, and Merlin, just the way his name sounded in the man’s mouth took him back two decades. 

There was not time for reminiscing, however, because Scorpius’ face was a mess of concern and guilt that Draco didn’t like at all. 

“Potter,” Draco replied. “What’s happened?”

“I hardly know,” Potter admitted. “Scorpius said he reckoned he needed to come here and so we did.”

Draco was relieved at least that his child had kept his mouth shut. He didn’t need Potter knowing his business, or anyone. The fewer people who knew, the safer Scorpius would be. 

“And he received his medicine every night?”

“Of course,” Potter assured him. Draco looked to his son for confirmation. 

“I did, Dad, promise,” the boy insisted. 

“I see,” Malfoy said, not perceiving any deceit in either of their faces. “Well, thank you for seeing to the well-being of my son, Potter. I’m sure you’ll want to get home.”

Potter looked half-surprised at the dismissal. What, did the man think he would be invited to listen in on private matters? The presumption pricked at Draco’s nerves. 

“Of course,” was all Potter said. “It was my pleasure. I’ve altered the wards, so you’re welcome to come back for his things when you're done here. Take care, Scorpius.” The man gave Draco one last scrutinising look, and left. It seemed foolhardy of Potter to trust him with access to his house so cavalierly. He had no reason to do so, and Draco certainly would not have done the same in Potter’s position. Draco rather remembered Potter being more suspicious when they were in school. Now was not the time for assessing the man's motives or lack thereof, however. Draco observed his son, briefly. His breathing was calm and even and he didn't seem at all distraught.

“Are you alright?” Draco asked Scorpius, leaning in to touch a hand to the boy’s forehead. The skin was cool to the touch and the child looked well. He kissed the pale blond hair. “This is not how I’d hoped to find you upon my return, dearest.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Scorpius replied. “The déjà vu started up and I didn’t want anything to happen, so I asked Harry to bring me here. The healer checked my file and gave me some repressant and the feeling went away.”

“Two weeks away and you’ve lost your manners?”

“He told me to call him that,” the boy grumbled. “Teddy was there for his holidays, and that’s what he calls Harry so Harry said I might as well call him that, too.”

“Fine,” Draco allowed. What the boy called Potter was hardly the material point. “And you don’t know what brought it on? You’ve not had an episode for quite some time; I had hoped we’d found an adequate treatment.”

“Yeah, well,” Scorpius said, his eyes sliding off of Draco’s face and onto the wall behind him. It was an evasive answer if Draco had ever heard one. 

“Scorpius,” he said, stern tone brooking no dissent, “what are you not telling me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read and commented. I am really excited to be working on a new story and am so glad you all are here!!!


	5. Five - Harry

The day had turned rainy and miserable and Albus and Jamie were sniping at each other in the drawing room. Harry found he missed Scorpius already—the quiet, well-mannered boy kept Al occupied, and even Jamie seemed to like him well enough. He’d brokered a brief sort of peace between the brothers which was now entirely dissolved. 

“Why would I take your juvenile little comic book,” Al sneered. “I’ve got better things to do than waste my time on rubbish like that!”

“It’s not a comic book, it’s a graphic novel, and Uncle George only just sent it. You probably took it out of spite, because you are treacherous little snake, and you always have been, Slytherin piece of—”

“James!” Harry interrupted the tirade, pressing a hand to the boy’s chest to keep him from physically going for his brother. Harry kept his temper, but only barely. “That is enough. Look around, this room looks as though it’s been torn through by a whole tizzy of fairies. No one could find a single thing in here. I’m certain Al would have no reason to take your things.”

Jamie’s furious green eyes slid from Al to Harry. “Of course you take his side,” he hissed. “You always take his side. Only Mum ever listened to me and she fucking left, and now I’ve got _no one_.”

Harry desperately wanted to tell his eldest that of course that wasn’t true, and that he really was sure the book was just kicked beneath the sofa since he rather thought he'd spotted it there earlier. He wanted to say that he knew all this wasn’t about the comic book or graphic novel or whatever it was called at all, of course he knew that, and that he could only imagine how terribly the boy was hurting and how he’d give his own heart on a platter if only it would make him feel better for even a single moment. 

But he didn’t get the chance, because just then, Draco Malfoy burst in through the Floo, high cheekbones flush with anger, a timid Scorpius hiding behind him. 

“Potter, you oblivious, irresponsible cock-up,” he seethed dangerously, surging forward until he was nearly chest-to-chest with Harry. His hand was gripping his wand, but it wasn’t raised. Harry stood his ground. “And you,” Malfoy spat, whirling on Albus, “you reckless fucking—”

“That’s quite enough,” Harry said. His tone was deathly indifference as he wrapped his wandless magic around Malfoy’s throat and mercilessly cinched it in. The invisible garrot left just enough space for the other man to breathe, but the moment he tried to speak, it tightened in warning. Malfoy’s hands flew to his neck, the blue veins visible through his pale skin as he clawed at the suffocating force. “If you take issue with my son, you take issue with me. When you’ve calmed down, I’m happy to discuss it with you, in private, and not as part of a dramatic display in front of our children. Am I quite understood?”

Harry’s anger was reflexive, primitive, taut. One more step towards Al and he might have killed the man. Harry didn’t like the clarity of that knowledge. Jamie was staring at him, lips parted in an awed sort of terror. The boy had never seen Harry like this, Harry had never let him. He’d reserved this treatment for stray Death Eaters earlier in his career; he’d not much use for violent wandless magic since.

“Let him go!” Scorpius cried, rushing forward and clinging to father’s wool blazer. “Please, Harry!”

Harry allowed the spell to drop. Malfoy fell to his knees, wrapping his son up in his arms, as if to shield him from Harry, like Harry was some uncontrolled force from which the child needed protection. Harry felt ill with the ramifications of it all. He’d horrified his own children—no, he’d horrified Jamie. Al was looking on with a sort of detached curiosity that left Harry cold.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly, voice trembling. “I just…” Merlin, his mouth felt dry. “Please leave my children alone.”

Malfoy rose, Scorpius in front of him. He stood behind the boy, an arm looped over his shoulder and across his chest, pulling him close. A mottled red ring circled his neck. Harry had a sick feeling it would be black by tomorrow. 

“I…” Malfoy rasped. He cleared his throat, which caused him to wince, although he tried to hide it. “I believe I would have acted similarly in your place,” he admitted quietly. “You have my apologies. Do you have somewhere private we could speak?”

“Daddy, no,” pleaded Scorpius. “Let’s just go home.”

“It’s alright, dearest,” Malfoy said, voice calm. “Mr. Potter has no intention of hurting me, I’m sure. Isn’t that right, Mr. Potter?”

“You have my word,” Harry murmured. “Boys, I think Lily is teaching Teddy and Remy some lessons at the culinary academy she has established in the kitchen," Harry was aiming for levity, but he could tell from his sons' faces that he had fallen short, "Why don’t you take Scorpius in and see what she’s come up with?”

“If you’re going to be talking about me, I want to hear what you have to say,” Al protested. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“To the kitchen, Albus. Now.” Harry knew his words were uncharacteristically flinty. He hated the way Al flinched away from them. 

“C’mon, Scor,” he muttered. 

The three boys scuttled off, throwing Harry resentful, anxious looks over their shoulders. 

**_/// ///_ **

Malfoy had wordlessly followed Harry to the rarely utilised study at the rear of the house. Harry had once had pleasant fantasies of curling up with the fire blazing, a cup of tea beside him and a frivolous spy novella in his lap. Then he’d had four children. Now he had mostly empty bookshelves and a great deal of dust.

Malfoy closed the door behind him with a soft snick of the latch. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Harry said again. He leaned against the bookcase. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I think you do,” mused Malfoy. He seemed to have adopted an air of ease, but his poise was belied by the tense line of his shoulders. “It was the same impulse that had me assaulting you in your own drawing room.”

Harry took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Right,” he said. “So. What has Al done?”

Malfoy considered him for a long moment. Harry shifted under the calculating grey gaze. 

“Scorpius’ condition,” Malfoy began, “is very rare. Albus somehow convinced him to induce it.”

Harry’s heart froze, then plummeted like he was on some muggle tower of terror. “He what?”

“Your son discovered that by elevating Scorpius’ heart rate, he could bring on the effects of Scorpius’ condition.”

“Why the hell would he do that? Al can be overly inquisitive, I’ll be the first to admit it, but he’s not cruel, and he cares for Scorpius, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t do anything to purposefully hurt him.”

“Scorpius’ condition is...unusual," Malfoy spoke carefully, "It is less what it does in the moment that is the issue, and more what could happen after the fact.”

Harry licked his lips, not understanding. It was clear, however, that Malfoy was not going to elucidate the issue. “I saw them playing at something like that in the garden,” he admitted, “but Scorpius seemed fine. Truly, Malfoy, I had no idea they were up to anything so thoughtless. My kids always have some odd game or another on the go. No one seemed fussed, or I would have intervened at once.”

“Well, perhaps you could have stood to be a little more attentive, then. Although I imagine you are rather distracted right now," Malfoy remarked.

The man was back to his old disdain and Harry felt a fresh wave of anger beneath his skin. “Yes," Harry agreed bitterly, "I have been. I have a four month old baby who rarely sleeps, a wife who just left me, and two devastated, confused boys who've been at each other's throats ever since. All of this was presented to you upon your arrival, and still you opted to drop your child and leave the country, with no way for me to contact you.”

“I assumed,” Malfoy clipped, “that you were a competent adult who could at the very least attend to the welfare of a sick child.”

“I did attend to his welfare,” Harry ground out, feeling his feet move him forward as his rage mounted, pressing into Malfoy’s space. “I was here caring for your son while he screamed in terror at some nightmare I couldn’t wake him from while you were mucking about in the rain forest. And this particular nightmare felt awfully more like a memory. Maybe _I_ should be questioning _your_ competence. Something left that boy traumatised, Malfoy, and long before he came to stay with me. I am hardly the only negligent parent in this room.”

Malfoy’s eyes glinted warningly as he jerked his chin forward. They were of a height, and now nearly nose to nose. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this irrationally furious, except, yes, he could, it was over twenty years ago, confronted with the same damn eyes in the same damn face. 

“And you didn’t think that was something of which I should have been made aware? You’re even more inept than I first believed.”

“You’re in my home, Malfoy,” Harry growled. “And in my home, you’ll watch your bloody mouth.” He slammed the palm of his hand against the door, just beside the other man’s head. He took a twisted sort of pleasure in the way it made Malfoy jump. 

“Or what?” Malfoy’s voice was an unnerving hiss against his cheek. “You’ll unleash your magic upon me again? You would think I’d be used to it by now. Harry Potter: the world’s stumbling, gibbering saviour, so decent-hearted, so kind, so gentle, a whole war and not a single execution to your name. But I know the truth, don’t I, Potter? I know what a brute you truly are, I know the violence that hides in wait, unleashed only for me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.” Malfoy grabbed Harry’s hand without warning, pressing it to the thin material of his shirt beneath his blazer. Harry gasped as he felt the ropey ridge of tissue under his palm: his own ruinous handiwork. It made him shudder.

“Go ahead, Potter,” Malfoy goaded, pressing impossibly closer. His lips brushed the hollow before Harry’s ear, but Harry couldn’t move, fixated on the torturous truths. Harry couldn't track from where this sudden, strange intensity had arisen. It left him discomfited: trapped and confused. “You think I don’t know how close you came to snapping my neck in front of my own son? I do. I fucking know you. I know you like no one else, isn't that right? So if you’re going to maim me again, you might as well get it over with.” Malfoy’s teeth flashed white, scraping against Harry’s jaw. Harry gasped painfully. He couldn’t make sense of the gesture, not until Malfoy shifted forward, the hard line of his cock stark evidence against Harry’s hipbone. 

Startled and frantic, Harry sprang back. He couldn’t name the rushing storm erupting in his blood, and what’s more, he was afraid to. Unbidden, Harry’s fingers found the skin along his jaw where Malfoy’s mouth had been, “I think,” he croaked, “that it’s best if Scorpius gathers his things and you both leave here at once.”

Malfoy’s gaze was assessing and shrewd, stripping Harry bare. “Very well, Potter,” he murmured, a cruel edge of mockery in his words, “if that is what you think is best.” Without another look, he exited the study. Shaking, Harry sank to the floor, his hands over his eyes, as though anything so benign could help him forget what had just transpired.


	6. Six - Draco

Scorpius had been a quiet child: shy but inquisitive, dutiful and not at all prone to outbursts. As such, when the boy broke down within seconds of being home, Draco was not quick to dismiss him. Scorpius stood on the rug, silent and motionless save for his quivering shoulders. Draco gently unclasped Scorpius’ cloak and tossed it over the back of a chair, then kneeled before him. There was hardly any of Astoria in the child’s looks. His colouring and build were Draco’s: pale and fine-boned, with grey eyes and near white-blond hair. Only with the incident last summer had some of Astoria’s temperament become evident: the bouts of melancholy and the reserved anxiety infringing on Scorpius’ previous steadfast independence. 

Draco took Scorpius’ upper arms in his hands, giving them a comforting squeeze. He tried to peer under the boy’s fringe to capture his expression. Scorpius raised his chin a fraction of an inch, and Draco saw tears drop to the rug below.

“Oh, my love,” Draco tutted, pulling Scorpius close. “I’m so sorry. That was a bit too much for one day, I know.”

Scorpius’ arms encircled Draco’s neck automatically, and it took Draco a great deal of effort not to flinch as the embrace grazed the tender, blossoming bruises forming there from Potter’s magic. 

“I thought—I thought he was going to kill you,” Scorpius stuttered pitifully.

“I know,” Draco crooned, voice pitched low. “I know, dearest, I’m sorry to have scared you like that. He wouldn’t have, though,” he assured him, not fully knowing the truth of his words. Had Draco raised his wand against Albus, what Potter might have done was anyone’s guess. “He acted just as I would have, had he attempted such a thing with you.”

“But you were just angry, you were just talking!” Scorpius snuffled wetly into his cheek. “You weren’t going to hurt Al, I know you weren’t!”

“I wasn’t,” Draco agreed, running his hand the span of his son’s back. “But I was very, very angry. I can see why Potter misinterpreted my actions.”

“Doesn’t he know that you wouldn’t do that? You’re Al’s professor, for goodness’ sake!”

Merlin, what a knot to untangle, Draco thought. He didn’t say anything for a little while, waiting for the worst of Scorpius’ distress to subside. 

“Come sit, love, let’s have a talk,” he said, finally, rising and leading Scorpius to the sofa. He tucked the boy under his arm and braced himself. He’d known this was coming, but he’d hoped, perhaps, that he could have delayed it a little longer. He didn’t want to see himself fall in his son’s esteem. “You know how before you left for Hogwarts in the autumn I told you more about the war?”

Scorpius sniffed and nodded. 

“Well, as I said before, I was rather on the wrong side of the whole thing.”

“Only because your parents made you!” Scorpius protested. The boy was loyal to a fault. 

“They did, yes,” Draco allowed. “Or at least they raised me in such a way so that I believed as they did, and never really questioned things, not until I’d seen the Dark Lord’s actions and motives at work. By then of course, it was too late: I was too afraid to run and thought I had no one to whom I could. In retrospect, I was certainly culpable. If not for my age, I should have been sent to Azkaban, I believe, and it might not have been wholly undeserved.”

Scorpius shuddered against him and Draco pressed a soothing kiss to his hair. 

“What I didn’t tell you,” Draco continued, “was that Potter and I were at school together.”

“I know,” Scorpius said. “Al and I figured it out. You would have been in the same year, yeah?”

The little verbal tic was clearly adopted from Potter’s boys, and Draco tried not to be irritated by it. 

“Of course you did,” he smiled. “Nothing gets past you two. Well, as you can imagine, being ethically opposed, we didn’t get on so well.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have,” Scorpius allowed. “So you fought?”

“Endlessly,” Draco nearly chuckled, thinking about those careless days in the common room, inventing new ways to get under Potter’s skin, simply because he could. He’d not admitted the source—the jealousies and insecurities, the chronic erosion of his own confidence at home— for nearly a decade. “Things got quite vicious, in the end. Perhaps I deserved it. I was…unkind.”

“He hurt you?” Scorpius asked, shocked.

Draco absently fingered a patch of scar, over his clothing. “He did, yes.”

“Your scars? Harry Potter did that?”

“As I said, we didn’t get on,” Draco said lightly. “And Scorpius, I’d appreciate you not speaking to Albus about this. I have no wish to tarnish his father in his eyes. It was a very long time ago. We were headstrong boys, the both of us.”

“But you got along alright at the hospital this morning and when you dropped me off,” Scorpius puzzled.

“Doesn’t do me any favours to alienate a war hero or, perhaps more importantly, the parent of two of my pupils.”

Scorpius tucked a lip between his teeth and worried it, considering. “So you don’t like him?” he asked. 

Draco barely knew the answer himself, especially with what had just occurred between himself and Potter, but he was hardly going to tell Scorpius about that lunacy. “It’s not that I don’t like him, dearest, I just don’t know him. Prior to a fortnight ago, I’d not said a word to him in nearly two decades. I’ve no idea who he is now.”

“He’s nice,” Scorpius informed him. “You might like him if you gave him a chance. He’s nice even when Jamie is being an absolute shit disturber and—” Scorpius clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Colourful language you have acquired since I’ve been away, Scorpius Hyperion,” Draco noted archly. 

“Sorry, Father,” the boy muttered. “Stupid Al. But I mean it, Harry’s nice. Like really nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Draco said. “I’m sorry if I’ve harmed your relationship with Albus at all, but I’m sure once we return to the castle, you’ll be back to your usual hijinks.”

Scorpius pulled away, looking up at him, brows knitting together seriously. “But you said when you got home from Brazil, I could maybe ask him here for a visit.”

Draco had to admit he was surprised. Surely Scorpius could see the situation for what it was. “I said perhaps that would be an option, but darling, you must know that it is hardly appropriate after this morning. Potter would never allow it, and what’s more, I’m not all that pleased with the boy myself, nor particularly with you for allowing him to influence you so. But you’ve had enough excitement for one day, so we can discuss this more tomorrow. Would you like a rest, or do you want to help me with some work in the garden?”

**_/// ///_ **

Scorpius was sullen and out of sorts all day. It was unusual, and Draco knew the origins, so he tried to be tolerant. It didn’t mean he wasn’t relieved when dinner was finally over and Scorpius slunk off to his room. 

Draco spent some time in his laboratory, carefully drying and storing the day’s specimens and adding labels as required. He also checked his stores and made a list. They’d have to make a trip to Diagon Alley in the next couple of weeks, to gather supplies for the next term. 

Memories surfaced from years long forgotten. The anticipation of running into Potter at Flourish and Blotts; making sure of it, entering with barbs at the ready. It was one of the few times he felt like his father was wholly on his side. 

Hell. More thoughts of Potter. Draco pushed the memories down and returned to his ledger, he could indulge later, once he was finished up here. He reached to replace the bottle of dahlia pollen to its proper place on a shelf. The collar of his blazer chafed the tender ring on his neck and an irrepressible thrill crept down his spine.

Draco was a careful wizard. He was precise and effective. His magic was tidy, but potent. He knew he was skilled. Potter’s was another beast entirely. It was reactive and coarse and raw. Hence his miserable attempts at potions, Draco supposed, remembering all of Severus Snape’s biting remarks. Potions were finicky; they required specificity in a way that defense magic rarely did. Potter never had the makings of a potions master, but that hardly mattered. Between them, he was by far the more powerful.

Draco examined the idea, and his response to it. He didn’t have the niggling jealousy he surely would have felt in his youth. Instead he found only curiosity and the pointed desire to be once again on the receiving end of all that ragged, crackling potential. He would be no match for the man, if it came down to it, and that fascinated and enticed him. 

Usually when the need to be hurt got too distracting, Draco would seek someone out. There were places he knew he could go, to find men with needs counterpart to his own. No matter how brutal the partner, though, Draco found himself with too much control. He was more clever, more fastidious, always certain to never be truly trapped. Those precisely calculated experiences were so unlike the interlude today, which left him choking in Potter’s drawing room, a singing terror streaking through his veins. The violence and the powerlessness had served as an aphrodisiac. And he’d let Potter know. 

The mortification of it all brought him out of his reverie. It was an unforgivable misstep. The thrum of adrenaline had made him bold and arrogant. What had he expected would happen? That Potter, clearly exhausted and freshly heart-broken—and so far as Draco knew, not at all interested in men—would reciprocate the attraction? That he would pin him against the study door and finish what he had started moments earlier? It was pure delusion, and now Draco was to face James, who looked more and more like his father with every passing breath, in the autumn? Merlin, would Draco be suffering daily for his brash mistake until all the Potter spawn had graduated? 

Draco rested his forehead on the cool wood of a cabinet. He tried not to think about Potter’s skin under his teeth, about the flare of Potter’s pupils and the unwitting hitch in his breath, how for just a moment, he had convinced himself that Potter wanted him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented, and thanks for reading!
> 
> Thanks to mimbelwimbel for the beta read. All remaining mistakes are my own!


	7. Seven - Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Attention!** Okay, so this is super embarrasing and shows just how little attention I actually paid to the epilogue, but I didn't realize/had forgotten there was already a Fred in the next generation. So, I've renamed the baby in this story Remus/Remy so as to avoid confusion. (Yes, I know that is Teddy's middle name, but Lupin's so great he gets TWO namesakes!). Sorry for any confusion/irritation!
> 
> Shout-out to my most excellent beta mimbelwimbel for catching this (had I not been so impatient to post, it wouldn't have happened in the first place) and for all the suggestions! All remaining mistakes are fully my own.

Harry accepted at around 4 a.m. that sleep would not be forthcoming that night. He’d replayed the bizarre interlude with Malfoy at least a thousand times, and it made no more sense now than it did hours ago. 

They’d been arguing, that was all. Arguing every bit as viciously as they had as children: loud and confrontational. And then there was that shift in tone, Malfoy’s unsettling accusations and bewildering arousal. When had it occurred? And what’s more, why? Harry hadn’t done anything, nothing that would indicate _interest_ , surely. Harry shoved off his eiderdown and stalked to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water that he didn’t really want. 

His mind unhelpfully replayed the whole event, pausing at the moment Malfoy had forced Harry’s hand beneath his lapel. 

Harry couldn’t deny the physical proof of his violence. He’d scarred Malfoy, permanently, it would seem. He could still feel the sensation of corded flesh under his palm. He’d been a boy, he reminded himself, just an angry kid, when he’d done that. In all honesty, he’d forgotten it almost entirely. That realisation brought with it a tide of guilt. How could he just forget an act like that? Maiming another person. Hell, Harry still thought of Voldemort more often than not when he saw his own scar in the mirror, so it wasn't as though he didn't know what it was like. It seemed a horrid injustice, for Harry to have simply moved on, while all the while Malfoy was carrying with him that blatant reminder.

Harry cringed. Apparently he was not as far removed from that angry kid as he would have liked. His behaviour in the drawing room had been abominable: violent, and reckless, and in front of his own children and Scorpius, no less. It was a terrible blunder. Malfoy was a professor at Hogwarts, for mercy’s sake, he wasn’t about to harm a student. Neither Jamie nor Albus had ever given Harry any reason to believe Malfoy was anything more sinister than a strict and exacting teacher. Harry’s response had been completely illogical, and that knowledge sat heavy in his chest. Merlin, how Malfoy must despise him. 

Harry tightened his grip on the glass. What did he care if Malfoy hated him? It made no difference in his life. But if Malfoy hated him, why had he reacted like _that_? And why had Harry felt—no. He was alarmed, that was all. He had every right to be alarmed. And alarm and anger together could have felt like a flicker of...of what exactly? 

More anger, there was certainly that. Malfoy had that effect like no one else, before or since. When he’d made for Al—well, Malfoy was right, Harry’s restraint had wavered dangerously. He wouldn’t have killed him, he knew that much, certainly not in front of the kids. But yes, anger, and something else, something darker. Harry had, he forced himself to acknowledge, wanted to hurt the other man. It had been such a heady rush: having his magic wrapped round Malfoy’s throat like that, knowing he was stopping him, teaching him a lesson, frightening him, even. Maybe Malfoy’s insidious remarks weren’t so far off. Maybe there was an unchecked brutality lurking in Harry, something not banished, but only dormant until today: when Malfoy made him so furious, the darkness burst forth like the breaking of a dam. It had to be that, for Harry never got like this. Even in his early days as an Auror he’d mostly kept a cool head about him. But renegade Death Eaters on the run never zeroed in on Harry’s exposed nerves like Malfoy could, like he’d always been able to. Harry could picture him now, smirking in the empty manor, savouring Harry’s humiliation. Malfoy with his intolerable composure and his well-mannered son and his aloof, punchable face.

But Malfoy had provoked him, Harry tried to tell himself. He had a right to protect Albus, to overpower Malfoy. Then why did it feel like a failure to enact violence upon the man, like it somehow meant that Malfoy had won? Harry groaned miserably, pacing the tiled floor between the cupboards. A muted creak sounded in the hallway and Harry spun to look, but there was no one there. Had he reset the wards? It didn’t matter. Malfoy may be an arsehole, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d not just show up at Harry’s house in the middle of the night, and the wards would have sounded if it were anyone else.

Harry returned his glass to the counter with too much force and went back to bed. He was almost relieved when Remy started to cry. 

**_/// ///_ **

Someone was shouting. Harry flailed about groggily, trying to orient himself. Remy was crying again from beside him. Fuck, had Harry fallen asleep with the baby? He ought to know better. Hell, he did know better, he’d just been so tired. He was still so tired, what time was it?

“My son, Potter!” The shouting began anew. 

Harry reached for his glasses but they weren’t on the bedside table. Something crunched under his hip as he struggled to sit up. 

“Fuck!” he cursed, digging out the glasses, repairing them, and shoving them on his face. 

Draco Malfoy was standing at the foot of his bed. Harry blinked, uncertain of his own grasp on reality, wondering momentarily if this was a cruel sort of dream.

“Scorpius, Potter, where is he?”

Harry rubbed his face before picking up Remy and cradling him. 

“What?”

“Where is he?” Malfoy repeated.

“Could you shut up?” Harry managed, the baby’s wailing filling the room. “I don’t know, I need a minute, could you just, oh never mind, damn it all to hell.” He stumbled off the bed and staggered away to prepare a bottle, ignoring Malfoy as he went.

Teddy and Jamie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, both blinking sleepily.

“What’s happened?” asked Teddy. “Professor? What are you doing here?”

Harry shook his head as Malfoy all but followed him step-by-step around the crowded room, dawn sunlight illuminating the dusty blinds. Only when Harry had passed off both the bottle and the baby to Teddy, and the house was blessedly quiet again, did Harry give Malfoy his attention. 

“Now, what can I do for you, Malfoy?” he said, not trying to hide his irritation. Looking squarely at the other man, he noticed the dark strip of bruises around the pale neck and blanched. 

“I awoke to find my son not in his bed, or, to my surprise, anywhere else in my home,” Malfoy said pointedly.

“Right. I don’t see what that has to do with me?” Harry replied obstinately, leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He could feel a headache pricking at his temples. Lovely. 

Malfoy sneered: “My son has exactly one friend, Potter. If he were to run away, where do you think he would go?”

Harry huffed, and without saying a word, he stormed down the hall and threw open the door to Al’s room without knocking. A risky thing, with teenage boys, Harry knew, but Al had never been a morning person.

“Dad?” Al queried, sounding bewildered. “Professor? What are you doing?”

“See?” Harry waved a hand to indicate the bedroom. “Do you see another child anywhere? Al, please tell your Potions master that his son has not been in our house since his departure yesterday.”

Albus’ eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then, so quickly that Harry almost missed it, came a sudden, single flick of the boy’s gaze to the empty cot. An empty cot that certainly seemed to have the imprint the size of a child disturbing the sheets.

“Scor? He’s not here, Professor, sorry. Is he okay?” Al asked, sounding worried. When, Harry wondered, had his son become such an impeccable liar? He sighed deeply. He was struggling at this very moment in time to remember why he’d ever thought he wanted children so desperately. 

“Scorpius,” Harry began calmly. “Would you be so kind as to remove my invisibility cloak?”

There was a suspended silence, but finally, with a shuffle of fabric, the pale, pointed face of Scorpius Malfoy appeared, hovering above the cot.

**_/// ///_ **

Malfoy was angry. Harry could feel it, radiating off the man in a way with which Harry had once been terribly familiar. 

“Scorpius, get your things,” Malfoy said through gritted teeth, pink circles flaming bright over his cheekbones. 

Meekly, the little blond boy dug a satchel out from under the cot and walked to his father’s side. Malfoy’s hand shot out to wrap around the boy’s bicep, jerking him towards the door. 

Harry stepped back to let them pass, watching them from behind, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t like the way Draco gripped his son’s arm. Malfoy was wearing a T-shirt for once, having left home in a hurry, and Harry saw a muscle below the sleeve twitch, as though he were restraining himself from giving the boy another yank forward. No, Harry didn’t like this at all. What if Malfoy were only holding back until he got the boy alone?

“Stop,” Harry ordered, and he was surprised when Malfoy obeyed the command. 

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy replied crisply, without turning to face him. 

“Scorpius isn’t going anywhere,” Harry said. 

Malfoy did turn then, just enough to catch sight of Harry. 

“What do you mean? He is my son, he ran away, and I’m taking him home.”

“Not like that you’re not,” Harry growled. 

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“Get your hand off him,” Harry demanded. Malfoy looked down, confused, at where he held his son’s arm. He pulled his hand away abruptly. He faced Harry fully now, a storm brewing in his grey eyes. “You can take him home when you have calmed down,” Harry informed him. 

“You’ve no right—” Malfoy seethed. 

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn a blind eye to this,” Harry assured him. “I’ll keep Scorpius here all day if I deem it necessary. I will not see him hurt.”

Malfoy swallowed, a mask of emotionlessness falling onto his features. 

“I’m not my father, Potter,” he said, tightly. 

“I’m aware.”

“Are you? Because you seem to be under the impression that I would hurt my son.”

“Why else would he run away? Not to mention I am under that impression because you literally were just hurting him, or is such behaviour so common place for you that you didn’t even notice?” Harry fired back. 

“It’s alright, Dad,” Albus tried cautiously from Harry’s side. “I don’t think he was hurting him. You’ve pulled Jamie away from at least a dozen Quidditch displays just like that, and he’s fine. I mean, he’s a right arsehole, but not because of that.”

“Al,” Harry cautioned, “not the time.”

“It’s just, erm, a little tense in here, don’t you think, though?” Al ventured. 

Harry forced himself to take a breath. His lungs felt clamped shut, filling them took effort. He didn’t like that Al felt he had to manage him like this; it made him uneasy, like he was some frayed thing that couldn’t be trusted.

“You son’s right,” Malfoy concluded softly. The previous anger had been replaced with a tentative consideration. “I’m sure we can settle this matter like adults. I cannot begrudge you your concern for my child’s welfare, Potter, but I assure you: you are quite mistaken as to my intentions.”

“Yeah,” Al agreed. “See? Come on, Dad. How about I go put on the kettle? Jamie and I can make breakfast, how’s that? I won’t even tell him he’s doing things wrong, even when he does, so we’ll stay civil. And you two can talk, and Professor Malfoy can tell you he wouldn’t hurt Scor, because if he had I would know about it, right, Scor?”

“He doesn’t hurt me, Harry,” Scorpius whispered. 

“But love, you ran away,” Harry pointed out. 

“Yeah, but not because he hurt me,” Scorpius insisted. “Just because he said I couldn’t see Al any more this summer and I...was upset.” The boy shuffled his feet a bit guiltily. “Feels a bit dumb now, since we go back in just a few weeks and all. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I’ve done plenty of stupid things before and Father’s never hurt me.”

“Yes, alright,” Harry said, feeling oddly deflated, headache blossoming into a dull, global roar. “Breakfast would be nice, Al. Thank you. If that works for you, Malfoy?”

“Sorry?” Malfoy looked like perhaps Harry had said the words in Parseltongue.

“Breakfast,” Harry repeated, “would you like to stay for breakfast?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading/engaging with this story! I really do so appreciate encouraging comments and hearing people's thoughts!!


	8. Eight - Draco

Draco watched, silently berating himself for not coming up with an excuse to leave, while Potter cleared some papers off the cluttered dining room table and motioned for Draco to sit. 

Draco acquiesced, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. His wrist landed in something gummy and cold, and he lifted his arm to examine some days old strawberry jam smeared there. Potter raised his wand and Draco flinched reactively. 

“Oh!” Potter said, dropping his wand hand to his side. “Merlin, I’m sorry, I was just going to…” he made the motion for a _Tergeo_ spell. 

“Yes,” Draco replied. “I assumed.” Because he had realised that, really, after that first millisecond. Why was he acting like this, all nervy and erratic? It was hardly dignified behaviour. He quickly performed the spell himself before reclasping his hands—in his lap, this time.

Mercifully, Potter let the subject drop. He cleared his throat and sat himself down in a chair next to Draco. He fidgeted with his wand, then, shooting Draco a guilty glance, put it down just out of reach. 

Draco wondered if he should make some civil remark, but it wasn’t his fault he was here. He was not the one who had suggested they share a meal, for goodness’ sake. It was Potter’s mess, and he could sort it. 

“About earlier, I’m sorry,” Potter said. Well, rather he gulped, looking like he’d swallowed something unexpectedly bulky. He cleared his throat again. “I shouldn’t have assumed you would...I overreacted.”

Draco examined the other man. Potter was still a mess, his hair flattened to his skull on one side, and its typical gravity-defying shaggy mess on the other. He was wearing only boxer shorts and a faded Chudley Cannons T-shirt, and sleep was still crusting in the corner of one of his eyes. He looked a bit like an overgrown boy, not much changed by the years, except for taking up so much more space. Draco never felt like his own body had filled out quite as he expected it to, but Potter was bigger and broader in every sense. He wasn’t a bear of a man, not like Greg Goyle, but nevertheless his thick, exposed limbs looked intriguingly capable. Draco had to look away, although he supposed it was pointless denying his attraction at this point, at least to himself. 

“It’s perfectly alright,” Draco replied, politely, examining the wallpaper. 

Potter cocked his head to one side, tapping his finger against the surface of the table. “No,” he said, “it isn’t.”

“No,” Draco agreed quietly, “I suppose it isn’t.”

He returned his gaze to Potter’s. The ridiculous round spectacles of their youth had been replaced with something more reasonable: black, framed clubmasters that Draco somehow doubted Potter had picked out himself. Those damn eyes were as bright green as ever, though, almost magnified behind the lenses, daunting in their sincerity. Potter was absently rubbing the back of his own neck, and Draco wondered idly if the man had a tension headache.

“I meant what I said,” Draco informed him. “If you truly believed I would hurt Scorpius, then I do not resent your keeping him from me.”

Potter shook his head. “I shouldn’t have thought that. Hell, I was with the kid for two weeks, I know how he talks about you. Father this and my dad that and everything. He thinks the world of you.”

“And yet not enough to obey my wishes, apparently, what with his running here,” Draco mused. “Albus must have some rather impressive powers of influence.”

Potter grimaced. “Al is a bit of a slippery one, I’m afraid. I’m sorry again, for all that business when Scorpius was staying here. I should have kept a closer eye on the two of them. I honestly didn’t think, well. Doesn’t matter, I was wrong.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage,” Draco conceded. “The healers were able to stabilise his condition and bring it back under control.” 

“Malfoy, can I ask—”

“Why don’t you go get showered and dressed, Potter? I’m sure I can entertain myself well enough in the meantime.”

Potter held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a disarming smile. “Yeah, alright,” he said. “Be back in a bit.”

**_/// ///_ **

Draco was flipping through a weeks-old _Daily Prophet_ trying not to think how bizarre it was to be seated at the dining table of the Potter family, when a young girl with dark red hair appeared at the other end of the room. 

The girl was paler than Potter, and had hundreds of freckles. She wore a heart-shaped locket on a long chain which dangled over her nightgown. Draco thought he might have seen her at Platform 9¾ a time or two, but he couldn’t remember her name. 

“Hullo,” she said. “Are you Scorpius’ Dad?”

“I am,” he agreed. “And you are?”

“Lily Potter,” she informed him officiously. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Lily Potter,” Draco said, trying for cordial. 

“I guess,” the girl allowed. “Jamie said I have to set the table. We never eat at this table as a family except for at Christmas, if we don’t go to Granny’s. But we almost always go to Granny’s. But Jamie sits here sometimes, when he says he'll lose it if he has to stare at Al's smug little face for even a moment longer.”

“Ah,” Draco replied. 

The girl sighed heavily and started to stack papers and move them to a dusty sideboard. It rattled as she dropped things onto it. 

“Al used to say there was a Boggart living in there,” Lily told him. “But really it’s just Mum’s china. We never use it. Not even at Christmas. She says she doesn’t know why she got shackled with it and not Uncle Ron or Uncle Charlie or anyone else.”

Draco didn’t have a response for this, but Lily didn’t seem to require one. 

“Have you seen a Boggart?” she asked. 

“I have,” he said. 

“Oh,” the girl sounded disappointed. “What did it turn into?”

“I’d imagine the same thing your father’s would.”

Lily gave him an appraising look. “Really?” she said. 

Draco couldn’t imagine Potter’s Boggart would appear as anything but the Dark Lord, so he was surprised by the question. 

“I would think so,” he puzzled. 

“Weird,” the girl told him. 

“Why’s that?”

“Daddy said his boggart would be Jamie when he’s stayed up too late reading his comics and gotten up too early and not yet had breakfast.”

“Ah,” Draco replied, understanding the discrepancy. Of course Potter would attempt not to frighten his children. “Well, maybe not quite that.”

“I think mine would be a Basilisk, but Al said Daddy’s killed one and I ought not to be worried about that. But,” her voice lowered conspiratorially, “I still am. Just a bit.”

“Very pragmatic of you,” Draco decided. 

Lily looked pleased. “Thank you,” she told him. “I think so too. What happened to your neck?”

Oh, Merlin. Draco wasn’t sure how much Albus and James would have told the girl. “An error in judgment,” he explained briefly. 

“Oh,” Lily considered this. “My Dad knows some healing spells. He could probably do one for you.”

“That’s a very kind offer, I’m sure, but magical wounds can be trickier to heal.” Draco should know; he’d spent some time trying to counter the inflammation the night before.

Lily looked dubious, but seemed to decide not to press the matter. ”Would you like to see my locket?” she asked instead. 

Draco didn’t think he particularly would, but he doubted that was the response the girl wanted to hear. Luckily, he wasn’t required to reply, because Lily approached of her own accord and flipped it open. A man who looked a lot like Potter peered out from one side with a friendly wave. A woman Draco assumed to be Potter’s mother smiled warmly from the other. 

“These are my other grandparents,” Lily confirmed Draco’s assumption. “They’re dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Draco replied primly.

“Didn’t you know?”

Draco was thankfully spared from answering that particular line of questioning by the reemergence of Potter, hair damp and with a vague scent of cedar about him. 

“Lily, are you pestering Professor Malfoy when you’re supposed to be helping?”

“He’s not my professor,” Lily replied, neatly skirting the question. 

“Not teaching you hardly robs him of his credentials, love. And if he wants to be left alone to read the paper, you ought to leave him be,” Potter scolded gently. 

“Hm,” Lily considered this, briefly scanning Draco’s face, “Am I pestering you, Professor Malfoy?” 

“Not at all,” Draco assured her. “You were making pleasant conversation.” Well, except the bit about her dead grandparents, but Draco was making his very best attempt at being agreeable.

“See?” Lily said to her father, clearly vindicated. “Also, Dad, Jamie said you have to set the table.”

“Did he now?” Potter inquired, his full lips quirking. 

“Pretty sure.”

Potter laughed. It was a rich, warm sound, that made it clear he was onto Lily’s deception, but was amused all the same. Draco was irritated upon realising he liked that laugh. Potter tousled the girl’s long hair, “Alright, pumpkin. Why don’t you go find Teddy and your baby brother and wash up and we’ll all eat. The boys should be done with the eggs shortly, I would think.”

**_/// ///_ **

“Merlin, Dad,” Jamie muttered, after serving breakfast and taking his own seat next to his father, eyes fixed on Draco's neck. “Did you see what you’ve done? You’re lucky Professor Malfoy can still talk!”

Potter’s tentative ease shriveled in place, leaving strained wrinkles around his mouth, where he held back a grim frown. Thankfully, Lily, Scorpius, and Albus were conspiring about something else, so they didn’t overhear the accusation. 

“Thank you, James,” Potter said crisply. “I’m aware. I overstepped and have since apologised.”

“If I’d pulled something like that, I’d be grounded for the rest of the summer.”

Potter rubbed at the back of his neck again. “And what do you propose I do, love? Lock myself in my room and leave you all to your reckless devices?”

“Might be an improvement,” James scoffed under his breath. 

Potter looked exhausted: crestfallen and hopeless. Draco didn’t care for it at all. 

“I expected better manners from someone with his sights set on Head Boy, James,” Draco drawled cooly. It was a risk, he knew that. There was no telling if Potter would become protective again, reactionary. “If this is how you speak to your father, I can hardly recommend you as an acceptable role model.”

Potter’s lips parted, about to protest, but the effect the words had on the boy were immediate. James straightened his spine and schooled his expression into one of polite sincerity.

“Sorry, Professor,” he said hurriedly. 

“And what have I to do with the matter?” Draco asked.

“Sorry, Dad,” James corrected himself, less earnest this time, but Draco deemed it adequate. He could tell the boy was blinded with his own misery, but wounding Potter surely wouldn’t help the issue. Draco had no intention of permitting such behaviour in his presence. 

“It’s alright,” Potter said, lightly, letting the tightness around his mouth lapse. He shot Draco what might have been a grateful expression. 

“Dad!” Albus’ voice sounded from the other end of the table. 

Potter, with a mouthful of eggs, turned his attention to his second son. 

“Guess what?” Albus persisted. 

Potter swallowed the mouthful. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“You know how you said we could go to Diagon Alley this week for school shopping?”

Potter didn’t look convinced that he had said such a thing, but he gave a vague nod and took a sip of tea. 

“Well, Scor said they were going to go today, too. So I say we should just all go together.”

Potter didn’t quite choke on his tea, but it was a near thing. “Er,” he said, risking a glance at Draco, who held his expression neutral and unwavering. “I don’t know, Al, we’ve a lot to do around the house.”

“Nothing that can't wait!" Albus pleaded. "Besides, let us go today and I'll do double chores tomorrow. We all will. Please, Dad? Uncle George said I could bring a friend round and he’d show us prototypes! Please? Scor won’t get to see them if I’m not with him!”

Potter had that helpless, lost mongrel look to him again. Draco couldn’t decide if he wanted to enjoy Potter’s agony or to end it. He waited, watching the other man squirm. 

“Ah,” Potter floundered, with another anxious glance at Draco, “Yes. Alright. If the Malfoys don’t mind our coming along, of course. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their plans.”

“Not at all,” Draco condescended, savouring the knowledge that he could so easily let Potter off the hook, and yet he was refusing to do so, “I’m sure it would be nice for Scorpius to have a friend along; quite a departure from our usual solitary excursions.” Draco didn’t quite know what was driving this bold carelessness beyond perhaps his old inclination towards provoking Potter. That and he wanted more time. Time for what, he couldn’t say, not exactly. It all felt like an experiment he’d conduct in his laboratory: adding this ingredient or that stimulus and observing the results. And he’d be damned if the results weren’t every bit as compelling and satisfying as a newfound potion: Potter gaping at him dumbly, bewildered and dismayed. Draco wondered idly if he cared about the nature of Potter’s response, or only that there was one. 

In the background, Scorpius and Albus grinned at each other, chattering madly about George Weasley’s latest intolerable inventions, which would all undoubtedly be banned from school halls by the second week of September. Not that banning them had much of an effect when it came to Weasleys' Wheezes. Draco still rankled when remembering the weeks of Monkey Tails: a candy that equipped the eater with a fully prehensile tail. It had taken every cold, sarcastic glare in Draco’s repertoire to keep his pupils in their seats, and not suspended from beams and iron torch sconces. 

“Er, Harry,” it was Edward Lupin speaking this time, he sat back a bit from the table which gave him room to easily feed the baby. “I’d thought I might go visit Victoire and her family today. Should I reschedule?”

“No, no, of course not,” Potter shook his head. “You shouldn’t be spending your whole holiday running after my hoodlums and changing nappies. Jamie and Al are perfectly capable of helping out with Remy. We’ll be quite alright, love, but thank you.”

“If you’re sure, it’s no trouble.”

“Go,” Potter insisted. “We’ll be fine.” And so it was decided that the Potters and the Malfoys would spend their day poking around shops in Diagon Alley—together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your encouragement and extra kind comments. You're the best. 
> 
> My thanks to my esteemed beta, mimbelwimbel, as always. All remaining errors belong firmly to my obstinancy.


	9. Nine - Harry

It was decided that Malfoy and Scorpius would return home to change (Malfoy, it seemed, found the idea of appearing in public so casually dressed nothing short of appalling) and they would all meet in the Leaky Cauldron at eleven. 

“Potter, you’re rather short on Floo powder,” Malfoy remarked, reaching into the green velvet bag slumped on the mantle. 

“Right,” Harry noted, the to-do list in his head growing precariously long. “I’ll pick some up today.”

“See that you do. Malfoy Manor.”

Before Harry had time to bristle at Malfoy’s professorial airs, the man and his son evaporated into the flames. 

Harry got Remy changed and dressed and hunted through the house for the baby change bag, Merlin, where had he put it? Harry could barely remember the last time he’d been out of doors to do more than shout at Jamie not to fly so far off. 

“Teddy, love, have you seen the—”

“In the mudroom, on the big brass hook!” shouted Teddy from the drawing room. “And Harry, I’m off, if you don’t need anything else.”

Harry popped his head round the corner so he could see his godson. 

“No, Ted, you’ve been an angel, thank you. Give my love to Bill and Fleur and the kids.”

“You could give it yourself if you’d answer their calls,” Teddy reprimanded gently. 

Harry felt that still tender part of his pride chafe with guilt. “In time,” he promised hollowly. 

“Well, I won’t harp on it, but everyone’s a bit worried, as I’m sure you well know.”

“We’re alright,” Harry assured him, though Teddy (and, Harry reminded himself, Draco bloody Malfoy) had more than witnessed that ‘alright’ was almost certainly an overstatement. “We’ll muddle through.”

“Molly wants to see her grandchildren.”

“And I’m not keeping them from her. She’s welcome any time.”

“I know. You just might want to tell her that, Harry, that’s all. She doesn’t want to intrude.”

Harry raked a hand through his hair, stepping fully into view and leaning against the doorframe. He bumped his elbow painfully on the frame as he did, and cursed, rubbing the searing joint. His miserable head was still pounding, cinching tighter. Every damn thing felt so impossibly difficult these days. 

“You’re right, I know you’re right. I’ll reach out to her soon, I will. I just need to find my footing.”

“She could help. She’d take the boys and Lily if you asked her to.”

“And give her proof that not only am I a failure as a husband, but I’m a failure as a father as well?” Harry asked darkly. 

“That’s not what she thinks, Harry,” Teddy said firmly. “That’s not what any of us think. That’s your damned pride talking and you know it. You’re her family; what Ginny’s done hasn’t changed that. And she’s worried about you, and the kids. You know since Arthur passed all she wants to do is spoil her grandchildren. Hell, she’s knitted me more socks than I know what to do with. I kept all my flatmates in socks this past year! And I’m not even her family, not really.”

“That’s not true,” Harry insisted, but he knew no matter what he said, Teddy would always, in some ways, feel like an orphan. Harry still felt it, even before Ginny had left, when he thought he’d had everything he ever wanted: that missing piece on the periphery of his awareness. “If Molly Weasley’s my family, then she’s certainly yours. There are at least a dozen of us who would do anything in this world to protect you, love, you know that, right?”

Teddy smiled that slow, lopsided grin of his and twitched his nose, a great imperial moustache blossoming onto his face. He gave Harry a wink. “Alright, yes, yes, you needn’t worry about me. I’m drowning in affection and am perfectly well-adjusted. What do you think? Just how loudly will Victoire shriek when she sees this? Will the frequency be high enough to make my ears bleed?” He grew out his sideburns and added some jowls for good measure. 

Harry laughed and waved the young man off. 

“Merlin, Harry, you’re nearly out of Floo,” Teddy remarked, grabbing a handful and stepping into the flames. “Shell Cottage!”

“Yes,” Harry muttered. “I’m aware.” But it was too late, because Teddy was gone.

**_/// ///_ **

Harry arrived at the Leaky Cauldron at quarter past eleven, which he didn’t think was so bad, all things considered. He had Remy’s pram in front of him, and a surly Jamie, a buzzing Albus and a dreamy Lily behind him. Malfoy was at a table with Scorpius, checking his pocket watch. Harry remembered that watch from school; the pretension of it used to make him furious. It irked him, still. Never mind. Al, at least, was looking forward to a day with his best mate, and Harry was determined not to spoil it for him. 

“Hullo, Malfoy,” Harry said, pushing the pram up to the table. “Terribly sorry we’re late.”

Malfoy finished his glass of sparkling water. (Honestly, who ordered sparkling water at a pub?) And set it on the table. 

“I had no delusions of your being punctual,” Malfoy proclaimed, rising. “Shall we?”

Harry ground his teeth, but let Malfoy lead the way to the courtyard. Harry didn’t remember being terribly meticulous in school, but that was ages ago. Surely he’d had the opportunity for growth over the years? _Yes_ , a nasty voice in his head pointed out, _but you haven’t changed, have you? Not in this regard._ Harry tried to justify to himself that he was a professional, he’d been on time repeatedly in his adult life. _Were you?_ The voice asked, _Or is the Magical Components Department just not that arsed about tardiness? Is this just one more thing you’ve managed to neglect?_

Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge these petty self-inflicted suspicions. 

“Alright there, Potter?” Malfoy inquired, a pale, perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. 

“Fine,” Harry replied tartly. 

Malfoy didn’t look convinced in the slightest, but he didn’t press. Instead, he reached a hand into a small satchel he carried and pulled out a phial with a cloudy, ice blue liquid. He held it out to Harry.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, nonplussed. 

“For your head,” Malfoy said scornfully, as if it should be obvious.

“How—”

“I should hope you would give my powers of observation a bit more credit than that. Drink it, Potter. Assuming you don’t have an allergy to any potion components, it should help.”

Harry didn’t suppose he had any reason to distrust the man. Or rather, perhaps he did, but not to the point where he’d think Malfoy would murder him in front of his children. Besides, should the man have nefarious intentions, Harry doubted Malfoy would be so blatant about it. 

“Er, thanks,” he said, removing the stopper. He examined the potion briefly. It was the exact colour of Draco Malfoy’s eyes. He drank it down. 

Harry started at the immediacy of the effects. Relief spread like a warm glow up from his shoulder blades and seeping through the knotted muscles of his neck and below his head. It eased the tension clinging to the curves of his skull, relaxing the hold the pain had on him. 

“Oh,” Harry acknowledged, surprised. “Quite good, that.”

“Of course it is,” Malfoy quipped. “I made it, didn’t I?”

Instead of waiting for a response, Malfoy focused his attention on the brick wall, and tapped it neatly with his wand, exposing the bustling, narrow expanse of Diagon Alley.

**_/// ///_ **

Harry examined his vault at Gringotts. Eiderdown End had wiped out much of his savings, back when he’d thought he’d rise through the Auror ranks quickly and easily, and he’d have a robust income on which he could rely. That was long before he’d had four children who grew like particularly resilient weeds. The kids and their myriad interests with endless kits and comics and supplies and Harry’s utter inability to deny them—no, all that was not ideal for the balance of his vault. 

He realised with a sick, sinking feeling while zipping along the tracks back to the main lobby of the bank that he supposed he should remove Ginny’s name from the account. He didn’t _think_ she would clear him out. She might hate him, but she couldn’t possibly deny her children like that. She wasn’t vindictive, was she?

“Sorry,” he murmured to an impatient Malfoy when he reached the man, who was standing with Scorpius and the Potter battalion. “There’s just something else I’ve got to take care of. I’ll be quick.”

Jamie, who was already furious with Harry for not letting him come along in the push cart, huffed. 

“I’m sorry your father’s need to manage the household finances is such an inconvenience to you, James,” Malfoy remarked airly. “Perhaps you could use this time to familiarise yourself with your booklist for the coming term?”

“Dad has it,” Jamie muttered.

“Hm, finances are not the only thing he manages, I see.”

Jamie pinked at the jab and squared his shoulders. “Well, I’ll find everything, now that we’re here,” he assured his professor.

Harry dug the school lists out of his pockets and handed them to his older sons. “Good idea,” he said. “Thanks. You two, stay here. We’ll be right back.” He gripped the bar of the pram and Lily’s hand, and went off to find a free wicket. 

When it was his turn, Harry stepped up to the grate, giving the old goblin behind it a congenial nod. “Hi, could I have a quick look at my recent deposits and withdrawals?” He gave his vault number and the goblin shuffled off to find the correct ledger. It seemed to take an age, and Harry kept throwing glances back at Malfoy while he waited. He couldn’t sort out what the other man was playing at. Why had he agreed to this ridiculous idea in the first place? It wasn’t as though he’d suddenly decided he enjoyed Harry’s company, and if he did, he had a funny way of showing it. He’d looked round Harry’s house in pronounced distaste—Merlin, that incident with the jam, Harry had nearly sunk into the floor. Just another stark reminder of his incompetence. 

Harry saw Malfoy say something to Jamie who looked up and answered, looking keen. Harry was certain James hadn’t shown interest in anything but bickering with Albus since Ginny had left, and as such, he was relieved to see any expression on the boy’s face that wasn’t petulance or anger, even if Malfoy was the cause. He had to admit the man had a particular way with James. He seemed to have easily locked into the best ways to motivate the boy: undermining his pride. 

Harry wondered if he should be more defensive on Jamie’s behalf, but at this point he was just so pleased that _someone_ was able to affect his son’s behaviour, as Harry’s own attempts fell pitifully short. It did, however, sting a bit that Malfoy knew Jamie well enough to do so. But why shouldn’t he? Malfoy spent more of the year with the boy than Harry did. As a child, Hogwarts had felt like the most natural place in the world to Harry; and yet, as a parent, he couldn’t help but resent it a little. He felt more distance grow between him and James with every passing term. 

The old goblin cleared his throat, and Harry turned. A large, forest green ledger was opened on the counter in front of him. He scanned it quickly. It wasn’t his imagination, then. His vault had been more scant than usually. There was a modest withdrawal coinciding with Ginny’s departure, and her income was no longer being deposited. Well, that settled it. 

“I need to remove a name from my account,” Harry informed the teller. “My wife, Ginevra Potter.” He felt his humiliation pique at the goblin’s momentary pause, but the goblin seemed to recover himself, and simply nodded. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “Consider it done.”

Shame still thick in his throat, Harry pushed the pram back towards the Malfoys and his family. 

“Is it taken care of?” Malfoy asked, as though he knew exactly what Harry had done. And maybe he did, Harry realised. It was possible that Malfoy had had to do the very same thing to his own wife. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, trying to swallow down some of his self-reproach. “Thanks.”

Malfoy only nodded. 

“Professor Malfoy said I might help him out with potion stores this term,” Jamie said as they stepped out of the bank into the sun. 

“If you can keep your marks up,” Malfoy added. 

“If I can keep my marks up,” Jamie repeated. “He said volunteer service looks good when the faculty is selecting who’s to be Head Boy.”

Harry could scarcely believe Malfoy had managed to get Jamie excited about something the boy would have disdained had Harry suggested it. Harry shot Malfoy a curious look. 

“Flint’s youngest graduated last year and I have found myself without an assistant,” Malfoy shrugged. “Marcus Junior is now an apprentice to a successful potioneer in Paris, at my recommendation.”

“Didn’t know you were particularly interested in potions, Jamie,” Harry said, pulling the shade down on the pram to cover Remy. 

“Never too early to start thinking about my career,” James sniffed. “And I’m decent at potions and they’re useful. I’d feel like I was doing something.”

“Didn’t get that from me,” Harry mused. 

“Weren’t you good at potions, Harry?” Scorpius asked. 

Harry laughed, “Not at all.”

“That true, Professor?” Al demanded. 

“He was quite abominable, yes,” Malfoy considered. “Although his learning environment left something to be desired.”

“I thought Severus Snape was your potions professor, Dad?” Al pressed. 

“He was,” Harry smiled, running a hand over Al’s dark hair affectionately. “He was an excellent man and a masterful potioneer, and an absolutely dreadful teacher.”

“Really?” Al asked. 

“An appalling bully,” Malfoy assured him. Harry felt an unexpected warmth at the words. He’d somehow expected Malfoy to defend Snape’s tactics—he’d certainly reveled in them as a child. 

“How come you never told me that?” Al asked Harry. “You only told me about his being a double agent and a hero and all that.”

“Well, we hardly named you for his classroom management style, love,” Harry told him. 

“Hm,” Al answered. He looked as if he were about to say more, then spotted Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. “C’mon, Scor! Let’s—”

“Nice try,” Harry said, yanking on the back of Al’s T-shirt. “School supplies first, then you can visit Uncle George, or Merlin knows I’ll never get you out of there.”

Malfoy gave Harry an approving glance and Harry felt himself flush. He was a good father. He knew he was a good father, even if his life was in shambles right now. He didn’t need anyone’s approval, least of all Malfoy’s. And yet he liked it, nonetheless. 

**_/// ///_ **

Harry remembered rather quickly on why he avoided Diagon Alley. Even now, twenty years after the war, he couldn’t take a step without the whispers and the pointing starting up, the people rushing up just to shake his hand and say hello. Some he vaguely recognised, having gone to school with them, some he couldn’t place at all. Harry tried to remain warm and friendly and to hide his inward frustration. No wonder Ginny always took the school shopping—and, if he were honest, much of the household errands—in hand. It must have been insufferable for her to be out and about with Harry like this, with all the relentless, time-sucking attention. Harry scanned Malfoy’s face for any hint of irritation, but the pale features were schooled into an irritatingly indiscernible mask of neutrality. 

Harry sighed as he parked the pram outside Flourish and Blotts, scooped up Remy, and made his way through the gaggle of rubbernecked shoppers. 

“Oh, is this the newest one, Mr. Potter?” a woman’s voice cooed, trying to step in to get a look at the baby. 

“Yes,” Harry gave a tight smile. “This is baby Remus. Pardon us, though, plenty of supplies to track down.” He felt Jamie scowling beside him and Malfoy’s disinterested gaze on his back. 

They all entered the shop, heralded by more whispers and hollered greetings. Harry waved vaguely. 

“Al, Jamie,” he began, turning to his boys. “Do you still have your lists? Can you hunt down what you need, please? We’ve still got Teddy’s and Jamie’s old books, so mind you only get the ones we don’t already have.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie muttered. “Hand-me-downs, like always.” 

“Yes, James,” Harry retorted, knowing he shouldn’t, “because it makes so much sense to buy you a brand new History of Magic textbook when the edition hasn’t changed since I was at school. But, if you’d rather have that than new Quidditch gear, then by all means…”

James stuffed his hands in his pockets and stalked off without answering. The sarcasm hadn’t made Harry feel any better, but James had been being ridiculous. He got plenty of new things. Remy started to fuss in Harry’s arms, his little face all red and scrunched up below his tuft of red hair. Harry shushed and rocked him. Someone cleared their throat. Harry looked up to see a couple of young wizards staring at him. 

“Er, hullo,” Harry said. 

The boys stood dumbly for a second before one elbowed the other, who steeled himself and asked, “Are you really him, then?”

Merlin, would it never end? Remy’s cries grew more pressing. He would need feeding soon, and then burping and changing. They had to at least attempt to get back in time for Remy’s afternoon nap, but the rest of the kids would be hungry before then, so they’d have to splurge for a lunch out, and James needed new clothes, and Al would refuse to wear Jamie’s cast-offs, and the owls would inevitably need more treats. The chores felt endless, and attempting to complete them all that while being stopped every thirty seconds to be gawked at felt less than ideal. 

“I am,” he said, smiling weakly. He never knew how to answer that bloody question.

“Potter, a word,” Malfoy’s voice was firm, summoning him from the end of the aisle. 

The kids turned to see who had addressed Harry.

“Oh, hello, Professor!” one said. 

Malfoy nodded, “Lott, Milton. I need to speak with Mr. Potter, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, alright,” either Lott or Milton replied. “See you in September, Professor! Bye, Mr. Potter!”

“Indeed,” Malfoy dismissed the boys, who scampered off, emboldened by the encounter. 

Harry joined Malfoy in a quiet corner of the shop, relieved. 

“Thank you,” he said, then jumped back, as a cold spell smacked him directly on the belly. He clutched Remy close as the spell began to spread. Harry could feel it in his chest now, then his limbs. “What the hell was that?” he hissed. 

“We’ll never get anywhere with all your myriad admirers,” Malfoy informed him, briskly. “This will make anyone who approaches you suddenly remember a terribly important errand they have elsewhere, unless you engage with them first.”

Harry gaped, his interest usurping his surprise. “What, really?”

“Hm,” Draco affirmed. “An effective spell for former Death Eaters needing to get out to the shops without being assassinated on sight.”

"You couldn't have done it earlier?" Harry didn’t know why he being argumentative when he should be showing some gratitude for the reprieve. It really was an excellent idea. Maybe it was the other man's efficient resourcefulness that chafed, as if it were directly juxtaposed with Harry’s own foolish.

"And how well do you think my pointing a wand at you in the middle of Diagon Alley would have gone, exactly? People's memories are long around here, and I can't say that my wandless magic is as well-honed as your own." 

“Right,” Harry said, shuffling awkwardly. It was such an obvious response; and realising that made Harry feel like even more of a daft git. Remy fussed some more. "Well, thanks."

“Take the baby out and feed him. I’ll watch the children.” Malfoy’s tone was that of a schoolmaster: instructive and uncompromising, as though he did not expect to be disobeyed.

Harry glanced first at Remy, who was looking ready to cry in earnest, then back at Malfoy, who gazed at him, expectantly.

“Er, yes, alright,” Harry acquiesced, using one hand to riffle through his pocket. “I’ll give you some Galleons for the kids’ books.”

“We’ll settle it later,” Malfoy told him. Harry got the distinct impression he should not bother to argue. 

“If you’re sure,” he agreed. “Oh, and Lily can have a new book or two. She always feels left out this time of year.

“Yes, of course. It’s handled, Potter. Go.”

**_/// ///_ **

Harry was standing outside Flourish and Blotts sorting out a bottle for Remy, when Lily sprinted out the door of the shop, grinning wildly. Jamie, Al and the Malfoys followed along behind her

“Oi, you lot!” Harry called, not wanting his children to suddenly remember an urgent errand like five or six witches and wizards had done since Harry had arrived in the little courtyard. 

Lily swiveled sharply towards his voice and then caught her foot on a loose cobblestone and pitched forward. Instead of stopping herself with her hands, she clutched her precious new books to her chest, and toppled first to her knees, then to her crossed arms, and then, with an unfortunate crunch, to her little freckled nose. 

Harry ran forward, as did Albus and James. “Merlin, sweetheart,” Harry cried out as he reached her. “Are you alright?”

Lily looked up at him from the pavement, her blue eyes wide with surprise and her nose streaming blood. There was a suspended moment of silence and then she began to wail. 

Harry cursed silently and knelt awkwardly, trying to comfort her with one arm, but Remy started screaming as soon as Harry pulled the bottle away. 

“James,” Malfoy instructed, handing the boy a small coin purse, “take Scorpius and your brother to the apothecary and bring me back some Soothing Salve. Potter, the infant.”

“What?” Harry looked up and saw Malfoy, arms extended. 

“The child. Give him here, and see to Lily.”

“Oh,” Harry said stupidly, letting Malfoy take the baby and the bottle from his arms. Harry turned his attention back to his daughter, casting a wandless _Episkey_ on her nose and her scraped knees. “Gave yourself a bit of a scare, hey, LiLu?”

Lily nodded, still crying as Harry cuddled her close. 

“It’s alright, love, I’ve got you. Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“Just my toe,” Lily gulped, sticking out her foot for Harry to examine. He fired off another healing spell for good measure, although he suspected it was not seriously injured. 

“My poor, brave girl,” he cooed. “Did you find some nice books?”

The remaining pain from her accident was obviously not too troublesome, because Lily launched into an explanation of her latest acquisitions: the next two books in a series about Godiva Greatstrides, a fearless young squib forging her own path in a magical world. 

“Well, that’s excellent, love,” Harry said, standing up and pulling Lily to her feet. “Godiva sounds like quite the clever little girl, not unlike someone else I know.” He gave her a wink. “Now, how are you feeling?” He performed a quick _Tergeo_ to clear the blood off her chin and shirt, and dug out a handkerchief to wipe her cheeks. 

“Nose still hurts,” she told him. “But mostly better.”

“Your brothers will be back with a salve for it any moment. Then maybe it will be time for lunch, how’s that?”

“And pudding?” Lily prompted. 

“Yes, I suspect we can go visit Fortescue’s after that.”

Harry looked to Malfoy for confirmation, but felt his heart stutter in place at what he saw. The careful, reserved tension usually apparent in Malfoy’s shoulders was curved into something more tender. There was a slight upward tug of his lips as he gazed at Remy, who had one hand curled round Malfoy’s littlest finger. 

Harry knew Malfoy was a father, he’d seen the man act with parental affection towards Scorpius countless times in the short weeks since they’d renewed their acquaintance, but somehow he hadn’t ever thought of Scorpius as a baby, tiny and defenseless. Harry had certainly never thought of Malfoy looking like this: so at ease with the chubby baby in his arms, holding the bottle just so, unperturbed by the goings-on around him. He wasn’t harried or hassled like Harry always was while dealing with Remy and trying to keep track of the rest of his brood. No, Malfoy stood with endless patience and attentiveness, and the sweetness of it all twisted inside Harry, contorting into something like yearning. 

Malfoy lifted his eyes. His gaze met Harry’s, unflinching and sure. The very air in Harry’s lungs seemed to still. He couldn’t look away, and if Harry hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that Malfoy could read his every thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so so much for reading and commenting. Slow burns make me anxious because I worry people will lose interest, so I extra appreciate the reassurance and encouragement!
> 
> Huge thank you to my industrious beta, mimbelwimbel.


	10. Ten - Draco

Draco was rather enjoying herding Potter and his lot around the shops. This realisation dawned on him just as they were leaving Quality Quidditch Supplies, Potter sliding a paper bag containing Jamie’s new kit onto the bottom rack of the pram (he really was the most indulgent father). 

“Twilfitt and Tattings next, I should think,” Draco said briskly. Potter smiled easily in agreement, the crease that seemed to be becoming a permanent fixture between his eyebrows softened. Draco savoured the quiet relief the gesture suggested. He’d noted it every time he’d made a decision for the party so far that day, as if Potter was glad to be rid of the responsibility of it all. Well, Draco was happy to oblige—swift conclusiveness was one of his strengths. 

Potter’s smile faltered as he shoved up his sleeve to examine a muggle-style wrist watch. He slid back the cover of the pram, revealing the chubby red-headed baby, who was, for once, cooing instead of fussing. Draco had to admit the infant was fairly adorable. Scorpius had been a scrawny thing, skinny and pale, and Draco and Astoria had spent a lot of time taking him to appointments and receiving very little in the way of reassurance or explanation. The Potter child was the opposite of that: podgy and pink-cheeked and hearty. Even Draco, who usually considered himself above fawning over babies, could appreciate Remus’ charm. 

“Having a good time, are you, love?” Potter asked the baby. “Was hoping you might kip off in the pram.” Potter lifted his gaze. “Sorry, Malfoy,” he began, “We’ve got to be going. If I push Remy’s nap any later, I’ll pay for it for a week. There’s too much excitement around here for him, I think.”

“Certainly,” Draco replied. “I can deliver the other three when we’re finished here.”

“Oh, er, that’s awfully generous,” Potter started, flushing, “but not necessary. We can come back and finish up the shopping another day.”

“But Dad!” Albus protested, lips pursed into a determined scowl. “We’ve not even been to visit Uncle George yet!”

“I’m sorry, Al, but the baby needs to sleep, or he’ll keep us all up!”

“Why have we got to leave if Professor Malfoy says we needn’t?” Albus demanded. 

“Seriously,” James interjected. “I’m bored to death of sitting around the house all day. Why shouldn’t we stay?”

Potter was once again in need of rescuing. 

“It was only a suggestion,” Draco said. “Of course if the children are needed at home, I should hate to interfere.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Potter assured him. “Just, well, are you quite sure you don’t mind?”

“Why should I mind?” Draco drawled. Potter shifted awkwardly. They both knew why. 

“I guess it is fine, then, if you are certain. Lils, did you want to stay here with Professor Malfoy or come home with Remy and me?”

Lily stepped in close to her father, which did not surprise Draco in the least. He was mostly a stranger to the girl. 

“I’ll come home,” she said. 

“Alright. Well. Er, thanks, Malfoy,” Potter dug around and held out a small bag of coins. 

Draco took it, and pocketed it beside his own. Potter circled the pram round, running it very nearly into Hermione Granger-Weasley, looking as though she’d only just remembered a pressing errand elsewhere. 

“Hermione!” Potter squawked. The woman’s vision seemed to clear. 

“Harry!” she exclaimed, stepping round the pram to give the man a ferocious hug. She eased back, still holding him by the shoulders. She looked like she’d like to give him a good scolding, but held back as her eyes drifted towards Lily. Instead she gave him another tight hug, standing up on her toes to whisper a reprimand into his ear. “Where have you been?” she said aloud. “It’s been ages, we’ve missed you all terribly!” She stooped to give her niece a hug and a kiss. “Where are the boys?”

Draco felt the moment Granger-Weasley’s eyes fell on him. 

“Professor Malfoy!” she said, surprise evident in her voice. She at once regained her composure, however, approaching him to shake his hand neatly before greeting her nephews. “You must be Scorpius,” she said to the boy, as though she were just another schoolmate’s mum, and not a war hero well-recognised by all of wizarding Britain. “My daughter, Rose, is in your year at Hogwarts. I went to school with your father.”

“We learned about you at school,” Scorpius said, shaking her hand politely. “Everyone says you’re terribly clever.”

“Oh, well, what’s a bit of cleverness,” the witch dismissed the comment with humility. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Same to you,” Scorpius replied. She gave him a smile before turning back to Harry expectantly.

Potter rubbed the back of his neck in that hapless way of his. “Er, we were all out just doing the back-to-school run, you know how it is. Albus and Scorpius are mates now, as I’ve no doubt Rose has told you. I was just taking Remy and Lily home for a rest, actually.”

“Well, Ron’s taken Rose and Hugo to a Quidditch match and I’m just running about. But I was hoping to see you, Harry, really. I’ll accompany you home for a visit, how’s that?”

Potter’s shuffling stance gave away his reticence, but Granger-Weasley wasn’t having it. She gave Potter a reproachful look.

“Yeah, alright,” Potter agreed finally. “I’ll get Remy down and we’ll have some tea, then.”

“Excellent,” the woman nodded, taking Lily’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Nice to see you all!”

Draco nodded a farewell. 

_**/// ///** _

A few minutes after entering Twilfitt and Tattings, Draco was forced to admit that he’d acted a titch too hastily. His focus, he realised, had been on putting that relieved, grateful expression on Potter’s face, and not, as it should have been, on reality. For now he was in a clothing store with his son and two of his students and he had no worldly idea what the latter required, what budget he should allow, or what Potter’s expectations might be in regards to purchases. 

Well, the Potter boys were two reasonably intelligent children, so they ought to know these things for themselves. Albus announced he was in need of shoes that didn’t pinch, and so marched off towards the rear of the store, Scorpius at his heels.

“Do you have enough standard robes?” Draco asked James. 

The teenager shrugged, sweeping a hand through his glossy, dark brown hair and sifting through a rack. The boy didn’t wear glasses but otherwise he looked remarkably like Potter, save for his more obedient hair and the conceited way about him that Potter never quite managed. “I’ve grown this year, I think,” James remarked. 

“Surely your father can extend the hem on what you have. It’s hardly a difficult spell.”

James snorted, “My father do a mending spell? He wouldn’t know where to begin. Mum took care of all that.”

“I see,” Draco replied. “Well, it wouldn’t take much for him to learn.”

James harrumphed. 

“You think so little of your father’s abilities?” Draco inquired. 

“Dad barely uses his magic, except to maybe stir a pot if he’s busy with Remy. Sometimes it feels like he forgets he has it at all. Except that morning when he—you know.” James mimed wrapping his hands around his throat, his tongue poking out for dramatic effect. “Everyone says he was so great in the war, but I don’t know, Professor. Sometimes I think it must have been a fluke. My dad, do all that? When most of the time he’s blustering about like some absent-minded puffin? Just doesn’t seem likely, does it? I’m not even sure he’s all that powerful, maybe he just had a bit of luck is all.”

Draco could tell the boy thought he was pretty clever to come up with this theory, and that stating it aloud made him feel bold and brave. Draco chuckled quietly. 

“What?” James stopped rifling through the racks of robes and looked up at Draco. 

“If you pursue potions,” Draco began. 

“I plan on it—” insisted James, as though potion mastery was his lifelong ambition, and not a suggestion made to him that morning. Draco raised a warning eyebrow. “Sorry,” James muttered. “I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“If you pursue potions,” Draco repeated, “you will learn that many components carry with them a sort of magical signature, or a mark of their natural potency. Work with them enough, and you will hone and extend this sense, until you can also apply it to witches and wizards.”

“What do you mean?” James asked. “Like you can tell how strong someone’s magic is? I didn’t even know that was a thing, exactly. Like aren’t you either magical or you’re not? You can study hard or you can slack off?”

“It is modifiable to a degree,” Draco explained, “but it is like many talents: some have more of a natural inclination for it.”

“Alright,” James considered. “So you would know, then. Was it luck that brought him through the war?”

“When I was a boy, Albus Dumbledore was my headmaster. During the war, the Dark Lord took up residence inside my family home. I couldn’t read magical capacity as clearly then as I can now, but suffice to say, James, your father’s power dwarfs them both.”

James’ eyes grew wide, his lips parting, and then he clapped his molars together with a fierce click. The wonder in his expression fell under a sudden, churlish curtain. “Well, he doesn’t _do_ anything with it.”

“Stopping Lord Voldemort’s reign of terror not enough for you?”

James scowled. “That was ages ago. Shouldn’t he be like, rooting out evil across the globe or something?

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, I’m sure he has his reasons.”

The boy didn’t look convinced. “How about me, then? Am I super powerful, too?”

Both Potter boys’ magic was strong, but more defined than their father’s. Theirs lacked that wild, limitless intensity. Draco only smiled enigmatically. “I hardly go about telling students the strength of their magic. As I said, it is somewhat changeable. I would hate to be the reason a child gives up in futility or leaves off thinking their natural talent precludes their need to study.”

“Come on, Professor, I won’t tell anyone.”

“No, James. Now, please select what you need so we can get to your uncle’s infernal shop before dinner.”

_**/// ///** _

The door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes let out a sound like a slide whistle upon opening. Back-to-school shopping was not yet in full force, so although there was a score or so children sifting through boxes of Insta-Slug and Welding-Gum (“Gum up your friends’ jaws!”), the red-headed clerk was unoccupied. 

“Professor!” he exclaimed, as Draco entered, the three boys rushing in around him. 

“Frederick,” Draco greeted his former pupil. 

“You’re the only person alive to call me that,” the young man replied with a smile, shaking his head.

“Hullo, Fred,” James called out, echoed by Albus. “Have you met Al’s mate Scorpius? He’s Professor Malfoy’s kid.”

“I could tell!” Frederick smiled, coming around the counter to clap James and Albus on their respective shoulders, and shaking Scorpius’ hand. He turned his head towards some royal purple curtains that led to what Draco assumed was a workshop. “Oi! Dad, some right pesky customers here need a talking to, you’ll want to come out here!” Frederick gave the boys a wink to let them in on the joke. 

The curtains rustled and a stormy George Weasley swept through them, some absurd golden pincer glasses perched on his nose. They were clearly for magnification purposes, as his blue eyes were distorted behind them. The man wore a bushy red beard. 

“Right, if you lot want new inventions, don’t go nicking things from shop!” He bellowed blindly to the supposed offenders, but his face split into a grin when he stopped long enough to take in the Potter boys. “Great Scott!” Weasley declared in mock surprise, clutching his chest. “My long lost nephews! I was beginning to forget what you looked like. I suppose you’re preferable to filthy little filchers, though only just.” He snatched the glasses off his face and yanked the boys in for a bear hug. “I was beginning to think you were adrift in the fabric of time and space.”

“Nah,” James replied, “Dad’s just being all mopey and reclusive.”

“Hm,” Weasley said, surveying Scorpius. “And who’s this, I’ll be damned if you aren’t the spitting image of that little git—”

Draco cleared his throat and Weasley looked his way. His congenial face shuttered, cold professionalism taking its place. 

“Malfoy,” he said. It was very nearly a snarl. 

“Weasley,” he nodded. 

“Dad,” warned Frederick. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Draco said, forcing himself not to match the man’s aggressive tone. “Potter took Lily and Remus home, but the boys were loath to leave without seeing you, so I offered to watch them. This is my son, Scorpius; he’s a good friend of Albus’.”

“I see,” Weasley replied. "And Harry just left his kids with you, did he?"

"As you can appreciate," Draco clipped.

Weasley's face didn’t soften, exactly, but he looked a little less ready to cuff Draco in the jaw. Despite Draco’s having taught both the man’s children potions for several years, Draco got the impression George Weasley was no closer to forgiving Draco now than he had been twenty years ago, when he’d spoken passionately at the Death Eater trials. Draco supposed he couldn’t blame him, it was not as though Draco had forgiven his own parents for their crimes.

“I was telling Scor about the prototypes, Uncle George!” Albus announced, and Draco suspected the boy was once again trying to de-escalate the situation—he really was a most intuitive child. “He stayed at mine for two weeks this summer, and we came up with some ideas for you.” He pulled a little notebook out of his pocket. “I’ve put our preliminary designs in here!”

“I’ll be back to collect you boys in forty minutes,” Draco determined. “If that isn’t too long to have them underfoot, Weasley?”

Weasley gave a hesitant nod. 

“Very well. Listen to Mr. Weasley, Scorpius. Don’t touch anything without permission. I’m off to Pheasant and Fowl. Any requests?”

“I’ve still got loads of ink from last year,” Albus informed him. “But can you get me some more broad nibs, please? And some raven’s quills?”

“Just some parchment for me, please, Professor,” said James. 

“Consider it done.”

**_/// ///_ **

“Can we get a butterbeer before we go home, Dad, please?” It was rare for Scorpius to ask for treats, but Draco supposed his son wanted to impress the Potter boys. 

“Yes, alright, but it will mean no pudding this evening. You’ve had plenty of sweets already today.”

“That’s alright,” Scorpius assured him. “I’d take a butterbeer over pudding anyway.”

Draco ushered the children into the Leaky Cauldron. “Find us a table, will you, James? Scorpius, Albus, come help me with the drinks.”

Once they were all seated, the boys sipping happily at their butterbeers, Draco started sorting through the myriad purchases. Albus and Scorpius were talking over each other in their excitement at the many mysteries of the Weasley workshop. 

“James, I believe these are all yours,” Draco said, handing off the various parcels. “I added a ream of parchment to your Tattings’ bag, I’ll just sort Albus’ and then I’ll—"

“Dad,” Scorpius said suddenly. Draco frowned, the Potters’ behaviour really was rubbing off on the child if he was interrupting so blatantly. 

“Scorpius,” he scolded, turning to look at his son. His irritation was forgotten instantly at the sight of the boy’s wide-eyed, anxious expression. 

“Daddy, it’s happening.”

Panic clutched at Draco’s heart, but he didn’t have time to heed it. An episode hadn’t occurred in public in years. The dosing by all accounts should be working, and he’d given Scorpius his medicine the evening before, he was certain. Damn Albus Potter and his dangerous meddling. They needed to get out of here this very instant.

“Come, now, all of you,” Draco ordered. He sprang up from the table, a half dozen bags swinging from his arm. He stepped alongside Scorpius, pulling him close and striding towards the public Floo in the corner of the pub. Hurriedly, he tossed in the Floo powder and yanked Scorpius and the Potter boys in with him. “Eiderdown End!” he shouted, just as Scorpius’ eyes went milky and he began to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thanks x 1 million for your support and glorious comments. You are all so incredibly thoughtful. Also thanks to my most wise and wonderful beta, mimbelwimbel for her insight. All remaining errors and discrepancies are the result of my own Slytherin pride. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait, these longer (for me) chapters take a bit more time!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. Eleven - Harry

With the baby down and Lily settled in her room with her new books, Harry set about putting the kettle on for tea. 

Hermione leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him. Harry grimaced at the breadcrumbs littering the treated wood of the countertop. He summoned a cloth to wipe up the mess. 

“Honestly,” Hermione chided. “Cleaning spells exist for a reason.”

“I only know _Scourgify_ and _Tergeo_ and neither of those seem like they would work on crumbs,” he admitted. “I took on the dishes and the laundry and the yard, and Gin dealt with the rest.” It felt like an admission of guilt. He’d taken her for granted. He slumped, dropping the cloth back in the sink—he’d deal with the perpetual mess that was the kitchen later. “How is she?” he asked, voice low. 

“She’s safe, Harry,” Hermione promised. “Any more than that you’ll have to hear it from her. I’ll not be your go-between.”

“I’d talk to her,” he insisted, “if she’d just tell me where she is or agree to meet me, I want to fix this, she must know that.”

Hermione reached into the cupboard to pull down two lumpy mugs Lily had made. “I think,” she started carefully, not looking at him, “that it might be a good idea for you to shift your focus some.”

Harry’s heart froze mid-beat in a panicked spasm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s been two months,” Hermione’s voice was gentle, but it tore at him like incisors into meat. “I think you might have to consider what your life might look like without her.”

The kettle whistled but Harry ignored it, rooted to the faded tiles underfoot. Ginny had chosen them herself, a golden sienna she said made her feel warm inside. Hermione stepped around him to get the kettle, pouring the boiling water into the teapot. 

“I’ve been living what it is to be without her,” Harry murmured, his voice rough and catching in his throat. 

“You’ve been surviving,” Hermione corrected him. She carried the teapot and mugs to the kitchen table, shoving some of Lily’s novels and Jamie’s comics to the side. “This isn’t sustainable and you know it.”

Hermione’s serious brown eyes appraised him. Her face had matured since their school days, a few lines spanning her forehead and a couple of grey hairs, but her gaze remained as pragmatic and affectionate as always. Her frizzy hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail, although Harry knew she had means of making it sleeker for her diplomatic missions. Hermione was perpetually involved in closed-door dealings with heads of state. Of course, she never spoke about any of it. Part of the job, Harry knew, but a divide had sprouted between them where one had never been before, back when he was fighting with her by his side. 

“What do you propose I do, ‘Mione?” Harry didn’t like the pleading note in his voice.

“Stop isolating yourself? Reach out to people who care for you?”

Harry poured himself some tea. He wrapped his hands around the ugly mauve mug, feeling familiar curves of the glazed lumps under his palms. The ever present shame roiled behind his ribs. 

“I can’t,” he whispered. Hermione reached across the messy table and squeezed his wrist. 

“We tried giving you space, because that seemed to be what you wanted, but I don’t think that’s making anything any better. I want to help you, Harry, we all do.”

“I…” Harry tried to swallow, but it didn’t work. His throat was thick and tears were imminent, the first he’d allowed himself since Ginny had left. “I don’t want you all to see me like this.” 

“Like what? Struggling? We all struggle. I know Ron’s spent a night or two on your couch over the years, when we’ve had a row.”

“This isn’t a bloody row,” Harry protested. “It’s a fucking failure. I’ve ruined my family, and everybody knows it.” The tears were falling now, streaking down his cheeks, hot and fast. Harry yanked off his glasses and swiped angrily at his face with the corner of his shirt. “How many warning signs did I have to miss, how severely did I neglect my wife? She’s Ron’s sister, Molly’s daughter, for goodness' sake. How can they bear to look at me knowing I pushed her so far away?”

“Oh Harry,” Hermione murmured. “You can be so horrid to yourself, you know that? It was Ginny’s choice to leave, her choice not to speak up.”

“But what if she did? What if she tried and I just didn’t hear her?”

“Maybe she did, but I’m not so sure. It’s complicated. I understand where she is coming from but I’m not at all convinced she’d done the right thing here, certainly not when it comes to the children. But that’s on her, not you. When it comes to you, no one is feeling anything but helpless, because we care for you and we care for the kids and we miss you.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. He leaned in over his tea, watching the steam twist and curl. “I’m sorry. I knew I was doing it, shutting you all off. I knew it wasn’t what you would want. I’m just so fucking ashamed.”

“Well, don’t be. Relationships change all the time. People’s needs and ideas and desires morph entirely and it doesn’t have to be anyone’s fault. Let Molly take the boys and Lily for a few days. You can get yourself sorted. Let me watch Remy one evening, and go for a pint with Ron. Merlin knows I won’t talk Quidditch with him.”

“You have time for babysitting when you’ve shadow organisations to run?”

“I’m a diplomat, Harry, not a mafiosa. And besides, magical travel is far more convenient than Muggle travel. I can be in China in the morning and pop back in time for dinner. I make it work.”

“I’ve no doubt you do,” Harry agreed, gathering up his sorrow and tucking it away as best he could. “I’m not keeping you from anything?”

“A rare day to myself,” Hermione promised. “Will you, though? Reach out? Remember we’re here for you?”

Harry cleared his throat and wiped his eyes one final time. “Yeah. I’ll try not to go at it alone quite so much.”

“That’s all I ask.” She gave his wrist another affectionate squeeze, then pulled back, surveying the disaster that was the inside of Eiderdown End. “Would you like some help with all this? I know tidying doesn’t truly fix anything, but it’s a place to start.”

Harry went to protest, but stopped himself. Hermione wouldn’t offer if she didn’t mean it.

“I would, yeah,” he admitted. “Would be nice to have a clean drawing room for once when Malfoy arrives.”

Hermione’s dark eyebrows shot up. “You make it sound like a regular thing!”

“Er,” Harry stammered. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

“Well, I’ve got all afternoon. Come on.”

**_/// ///_ **

Harry explained his improbable exchanges with Malfoy: from looking after Scorpius to the day’s shopping. He left out the bit in his study; he was still trying to parse that interaction himself.

“ _Detergeo_ ,” he said, pointing his wand at the mantle. The dust around the base of the family photos vanished. 

“Good,” Hermione remarked, approvingly. She always did like to teach. “Well. That was quite the story, Harry. Never thought I’d see you willingly seeking out Draco Malfoy’s company, Merlin.”

“Might be a bit of an overstatement,” Harry pointed out. “It’s mostly Al, you know how he is. Conniving little blighter. Though it’s not just him, Malfoy seems in on it, too. Like he enjoys trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Well, that checks out with everything we’ve ever known about Malfoy, doesn’t it? Maybe he’s just happy for some company, though? I mean, with his past, he can’t have a great many friends. And I’ve heard he was a bit cut throat in his pursuit of his position at Hogwarts. Who knows what’s just gossip, of course.”

Harry didn’t bother to point out that Hermione was typically a good source of information that was not just gossip.

“Maybe,” he agreed, but he didn’t believe it. Why on earth should Malfoy want Harry’s company, especially now, when Harry was more of a mess than he’d ever been? 

“Could be good for you to have a friend who didn’t know you as part of a couple, a fresh perspective, that sort of thing.”

Harry scoffed. “We’re hardly friends! We tolerate each other for the sake of the kids. That’s all.”

“Well, wouldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.”

“When did you become all pro-Draco Malfoy?” Harry demanded. 

Hermione pursed her lips, intelligent eyes scanning Harry’s face. She went back to zipping Quidditch gear down the hall and onto hooks in the mudroom “I’m not pro or con. He’s a very capable professor, so far as I can tell. Squeaky clean record since his parents were put away. He was an absolute git when we were in school—”

“A git!” Harry choked. “He nearly murdered Ron, and Katie Bell, and Dumbledore! That’s hardly nothing!”

“He was a child, Harry. What would Jamie do now if your life was threatened as Narcissa Malfoy's was, do you think? He’s nearly the same age as Malfoy was when he was forced to choose between his family and his headmaster."

“Probably let me die, the way things have been going,” Harry muttered darkly, he had that uncomfortable, brittle feeling he always did after a bit of cry. “He’s none too pleased with me.” Nevertheless, he conceded her point. Harry didn’t like to think about Jamie being as distraught and miserable as Malfoy had been that fateful day in the lavatory. He didn’t want any of his kids to face any decisions more difficult than what they might like to do after Hogwarts. He’d give anything to shield them from the atrocities of his youth.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione sympathised. “I know he must be so terribly angry. He’s lashing out, I take it?”

Harry sighed, and stooped to dig out some comics from under the sofa. He curled his lip at the molding crusts of toast that came out along with them. “I can’t do anything right. Anything I say or do is met with barbs and malice. Only Malfoy has any effect on his manners. I feel utterly unequipped to deal with him—he’s never been like this, he used to be such a bright, good-natured kid.”

“He’ll come round,” Hermione assured him. “Just keep talking to him. You’re not the one he’s angry with, you know, you’re just the one who’s there to shoulder the attacks.”

“What if he knows I drove her away?”

“Then he should know she should have left you, not them. I can’t begin to imagine what’s going through their heads. How’s Al taking it?”

“I hardly know. He’s always been a bit secretive. Lily was the easiest somehow, she got all her feelings out and is back to her usual self, for the most part, although I know she misses her mum sometimes, and she doesn’t understand.”

“Make sure you tell them this isn’t their fault.”

“I’ve been trying, I’m just not certain they hear me, you know?”

“Then keep saying it. Well,” Hermione stretched and surveyed the now orderly drawing room. “That’s a bit better, isn’t it?”

**_/// ///_ **

Hermione had left through the front door, walking two blocks to where Harry’s admittedly over-cautious anti-Apparition wards ended. He’d forgotten to pick up more Floo powder. Maybe Malfoy would remember, with that strange astute knack of his to know what Harry needed almost before Harry knew himself. 

Harry had used the new spells Hermione had taught him to tidy the kitchen and the living room. Then Remy had woken up and Lily had wanted a snack, then they’d migrated back to the drawing room, where Lily had a little easel and some watercolours arranged by the window. 

“What are you painting today, LiLu?” Harry asked as Remy sucked happily at his bottle. 

“I thought maybe a Basilisk,” Lily informed him. “Godiva Greatstrides says one ought to up and face their fears. I’m not sure I’m ready to face a real Basilisk yet, but I thought a painting might be a good place to start. Did you really kill one, Daddy?”

Harry’s head shot up. “Who told you that, love?”

“Al did. He said he read it in a book at school. He said you stabbed it right in the brain, while standing on its tongue.”

“Well, Al tells a lot of tales.”

“So it’s not true then?” Lily looked disheartened. 

“I...there are some things I would rather talk to you about when you’re older, sweetheart. I don’t want to fill your head with frightening things.”

“I should like to know you would defend me from a Basilisk,” Lily insisted. “At least until I’m bigger and know magic and can take care of it myself.”

“I’ll defend you from anything, Lily, my love. That I can promise.”

Lily seemed satisfied enough with that and went back to her painting. Harry started thinking about what on earth to make for dinner. How angry would Jamie be if he opted for beans on toast again?

The flames in the hearth shone suddenly green and Malfoy and the boys stumbled out. Harry stood, Remy still in his arms, as Scorpius pitched forward. His eyes were a disconcerting white, his hands shaking. 

“An ocean may roar, or a jaguar strike, but naught alone may save a pinioned Pythia!” said a low, hoarse voice. Harry was shocked to realise the words were erupting from Scorpius’ throat. Before he could react, Malfoy had drawn his wand, aimed it at his son, and shouted: “ _Somnium!_ ” 

The child collapsed onto the rug, motionless. 

Without speaking, Malfoy strode forward, letting several bags of goods fall to the floor, and scooped up the sleeping child. He made for the mantle, his hand scrambling awkwardly into the empty bag of powder. 

“Potter,” he hissed, “did you or did you not acquire more Floo powder?”

“Um,” Harry started, still not quite able to comprehend all that had just happened. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

Malfoy whirled, dark pink slashes of emotion visible over his cheekbones. “Where do you Apparition wards end?”

“A few blocks away,” Harry admitted. 

Malfoy was livid.

“Look,” Harry said, feeling his spine stiffen. He didn’t at all like this font of anger around his family. “How long does he need to sleep for? For the prophesying to stop?”

“That’s not what it was,” insisted Malfoy.

“I’m not daft,” Harry countered. “I know a prophecy when I see one, even if they’re not usually quite like that. How long?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy seethed. “Several hours, maybe more. He needs his potion.”

“I still have the phial you left with me,” Harry told him. “The cot is still set up in Al’s room. Put him there. I’ll grab the potion and you do what you must, but then you and I will be having a conversation, for real this time, Malfoy. I mean it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and especially for the comments! I'm so grateful!
> 
> Extra special thanks to my invaluable beta mimbelwimbel for the insight and corrections. All remaining errors are my own!


	12. Twelve - Draco

Draco lay Scorpius down on his side, overtop of the covers of the small cot. Draco examined the boy, relieved at his slack, peaceful expression. Scorpius had been so pale and panicked at the Leaky Cauldron. He must have been having _déjà vu_ , that was the usual first symptom. How long had he been sitting there, hoping it would pass, that it didn’t foretell what he knew it did? Draco brushed a platinum lock of hair off his son’s forehead. 

Someone gently cleared their throat, from the doorway. Draco didn’t have to turn to know it was Potter. 

“Here,” Potter offered, holding out the phial. 

“Thanks,” Draco replied quietly. 

He filled the stopper and slid it beneath Scorpius’ tongue. The boy didn’t even stir. Draco wondered anxiously if he should end the sleep spell, but he didn’t want to risk it, not yet. 

Potter was hovering. With a final look at Scorpius, Draco rose. 

“Your children—”

“I’ve spoken to them,” Potter interrupted. “They understand the need for secrecy.”

“It can’t get out. If you’d not been standing there, I would have _Obliviated_ them myself.”

“I know,” Potter promised. “Not a syllable, to anyone, you have my word.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause, and then Potter stepped closer, until he was shoulder to shoulder with Draco, looking down at the sleeping child. 

“They are frequent, then? The prophecies?” Potter inquired, his voice low. 

Draco turned and examined the man’s face. He didn’t look curious or keen at the exciting diagnosis like some healers had. He didn’t appear to be plotting or calculating Scorpius’ worth to the right buyers. No, Potter looked distraught, concerned for Scorpius’ welfare. His dark brows were curled inwards, tucking under the straight line of the black frame of his clubmasters. His mouth was pursed with the gravity of it all. Potter wanted, Draco realised suddenly, to _help_. Of course he did, Draco chided himself. This was Harry Potter after all. Helping was the supposed cornerstone of the man’ s entire personality, if the gossip columns were to be believed. While Potter’s presence in the public eye had lessened over the years, he continued to pop up from time to time, lending support to various foundations and charities. Draco had seen Potter’s wooden smile and congenial handshakes with ministers splashed across a hundred _Daily Prophet_ papers over the years. 

Draco scoured the other man’s expression again, more intently this time, searching for any hint of malice. Potter had never been good at hiding his emotions as a boy, but perhaps deceit came more naturally to him now. Again, Draco saw nothing but genuine worry. He told himself he was being ridiculous. Even if Potter’s schoolyard grudges remained, he certainly wouldn’t take those resentments out on a child. It was only Draco’s protective instincts holding him back. Beyond the necessary healers, Draco had never told a soul of Scorpius’ condition, not even Pansy. The danger was too great. But here he was, considering telling Harry Potter of all people. 

And why not, he asked himself. Wasn’t the man righteous to his very core? Surely Potter wouldn’t let the knowledge fall into the wrong hands. Maybe it could prove useful to have the saviour of the wizarding world willing to protect his son. 

Draco nodded curtly, then glanced quickly at Scorpius. “Is there somewhere else we could discuss this?”

“Yeah, sorry, of course,” Potter said. He led Draco down the hallway dotted with doors and into a small sort of sunroom. It was chilly, despite the time of year. The sky had clouded over, and the room was hardly sunny. Mismatched patio furniture occupied much of the space, along with some sort of Muggle tabletop game with a net and little rackets. It was coated in dust, its novelty having worn off some years ago. A round-bellied clay chiminea in a friendly, muted coral sat in the corner. Potter lit a fire in it with a wave of his wand. Draco eyed the casual slope of the striped canvas deck chairs coolly. Potter apologised again and transfigured them into stately wingbacks. Although unsuitable for the setting, they did seem somewhat more appropriate for the ensuing conversation than sunloungers. Draco lowered himself into one with all the grace he could muster, and Potter did the same, looking at him expectantly. 

“It’s a recent development,” Draco began. “Vates often present just prior to the onset of puberty.”

“Vate what-nows?” Potter queried.

“Vates,” Draco repeated, slowing the syllables down. “They are seers of sorts, but far more rare, and they foretell futures more readily than they will converse over the breakfast table. When Scorpius first came into it, he spoke in nothing but riddles for days. I drove myself mad trying to divine it all.”

“Merlin,” Potter breathed. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, that familiar crease etched between his brows. “And he couldn’t control it on his own, I presume? That’s what the potion is for?”

Draco nodded. “Even after the initial onslaught dampened somewhat, he was still spewing destinies several times a day. It was incredibly disruptive; it frightened him. He wouldn’t remember proclaiming them, of course, so it was as though he was missing segments of his life. I’m sure it was terribly disconcerting for him. The potion has been tremendous. He’s not had an episode since we found the right dosing.”

Potter clasped his hands. Draco watched as the sturdy muscles of Potter’s fingers flexed with tension. “Until Al,” Potter said bitterly. 

“Apparently so.”

“I’m so furious with him. What a horridly reckless thing to do.”

“His is not solely to blame. Scorpius chose to go along with it.”

“Oh, Merlin, I don’t know. Albus can be such a little ringleader when he sets his mind to it. I’ve seen it with Lily. The things he tells her sometimes, honestly. Scares her half to death.”

Draco gave a small smile. Children really were fascinating little terrors. “Scorpius may be mild-mannered, but he’s not spineless. I just wish I knew what was motivating them, beyond curiosity.”

“I know,” Potter agreed with a helpless shrug. “I wish I could keep track of what they get into, but Al especially is hard to pin down. He throws himself at his interests. Last summer, it was ant colonies. He found a nest of those, oh, what do you call them, thatching ants, I suppose, in the woods beyond the garden. It was all we could do to drag him in for dinner. Twelve hours a day, he was out there, diagramming them and comparing them to pictures in great tomes of fauna, making meticulous notes on colony structure. And then one day he just dropped it and was onto something new, and he never mentioned the bloody ants again.”

Draco chuckled at the anecdote and Potter rewarded him with a little grin, which faded suddenly as a thought seemed to cross his mind. He swallowed and Draco watched the stubbled curve of his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. Merlin, but he liked looking at the man.

“What is it?” asked Draco, returning his gaze to Potter’s with only a slight twinge of reluctance. He found he rather wished to observe the other man at his leisure, social niceties be damned. 

“I’m even worse at keeping up with him now that Ginny’s gone,” Potter admitted. “With Remy not sleeping through the night, and Jamie always at my throat...well. I’m just relieved that Al and Lily tend to entertain themselves. I know I should be more involved, but I’m just so fucking tired. I...Well. You've been here. I’m clearly not holding things together, am I?”

“Everyone’s fed and clothed and has all their limbs, Potter,” Draco reminded him. “You’re getting by.”

Potter seemed to accept this with a glum nod of his shaggy head. The man needed a haircut, but when didn’t he?

“How did you do it?” Potter asked suddenly, looking up from below his fringe. 

“Beg your pardon?” Draco asked, not following. 

“Your wife. You're, er, separated? I mean, is it...” Potter trailed off, looking uncertain. 

“Sorry?” Draco prompted.

“Is it okay for me to ask about that? You can tell me to shove off, if you’d rather,” Potter requested, tentatively. 

Draco considered it. It was another thing he’d not spoken aloud, and yet he felt suddenly so compelled. Potter’s stark sincerity had a power of its own. 

“You’re welcome to ask, but I’m not sure how much comfort my answer will provide,” Draco began. “I believe our situations are quite different. Astoria’s and my marriage was one of convenience, you understand. She had a good name and careless ancestors who left her with no fortune to speak of. I had a fortune and, as you know, a name that had rather lost its shine. When we first met, she seemed adept and clever. She wanted a child, so did I. We had agreed to keep our independence, romantic and otherwise, save that I would provide her with a pre-agreed upon monthly stipend. Initially, the arrangement suited us very well.”

“Oh,” Potter looked flummoxed, like the idea of anything but marrying for love was beyond his comprehension. Pragmatism was hardly his strong suit. “So, you didn’t see much of her, then?”

“I had my time with Scorpius, and she had her time. Publicly, we took pains to appear as a cohesive family.”

“So, what happened?” Potter asked. “I mean, sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“It’s not, no,” Draco agreed. “But I’ve told you about Scorpius. I’ve requested your silence. Perhaps it would be helpful for me to elaborate on the gravity of the situation.”

Draco took a slow breath, thinking of how best to reveal the tangled web that was the previous year.

“As I said,” he began, “Astoria and I keeping separate lives suited us, but perhaps adhering to that tack was an error in judgment. Scorpius’ birth changed Astoria. It was a difficult labour and went on far too long. He was born hypoxic, and he couldn’t breathe unassisted for his first weeks of life. This was, of course, very frightening, and things didn’t get easier for quite some time. He was not a robust child, and it was made worse by the healers never seeming to be able to offer a satisfactory explanation of what exactly was the matter.”

Potter didn’t say anything, his green eyes clear and attentive in their compassion. 

Draco crossed his legs and continued. He tried to be objective in his telling, to suppress the anger and frustration that he knew came across less than admirable. “Astoria’s anxiety grew. To cope, she turned to potions promising euphoria. It was her life, I told myself. That was the agreement, it was hardly my business. So long as I didn’t feel it was affecting her ability to care for my son, I stayed out of it. In retrospect, this was likely the wrong decision. Had I reached out, had we forged more of a connection, even one of friendship, it might have helped—or it might have hurt. Astoria is a very proud woman. She never took kindly to being told what to do, and any comments on my part were met with derision and scorn.

“For a time, she got better. When Scorpius’ health stabilised somewhat, things improved, but the onset of his soothsaying brought it all back. It started early last summer—thank goodness it was before we sent him off to Hogwarts—but the diagnosis retraumatised her, and she returned to her potions to an even greater extent than before. She remained in her wing of the manor. She avoided Scorpius, out of fear, I presume, or guilt, or shame. By autumn, her habit had nearly consumed her, despite us finding a successful treatment for Scorpius’ condition. Her resistance to the potions’ effects grew. She required more to meet her needs. I refused to increase her stipend to accommodate her habit, and she had no independent income. And so, she sold our secret, she sold our son, to feed her addiction.”

Potter’s gentle eyes flashed steely at the words. His jaw set as he absorbed the horrific reality of Draco’s words. “I see,” he commented, voice deathly quiet. Draco could see the chafe of the act against Potter’s stalwart sense of justice. “I suppose an endless supply of prophecies appeals to those without basic decency.”

“Quite. Scorpius came home for Samhain at Astoria’s request—she observes a druidic calendar—and I should have known, should have suspected her motives, but I was blinded by my relief that she seemed interested in being part of his life again. Her absence troubled him a great deal; it pained me to see it. The clutch she sold him to—an unsavoury crew with a lot of irons in a lot of questionable fires—attempted the abduction his first night home. I...,” Draco paused, searching for an appropriate euphemism. He might be disclosing a great deal to Potter, but certain things an Auror likely didn’t need to hear. “Well, suffice to say I intervened, but it was very difficult for Scorpius, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Fucking hell,” Potter breathed, his eyes wide and lips twisted in horrified disgust. “Her own kid? How could she…It’s despicable, truly.”

“She regretted it of course. I think she’d half convinced herself it was a terrible dream and not something in which she’d been complicit at all. It isn’t as though she doesn’t care for him, quite the opposite. I think she cared for him so much that her worry became unbearable. I suspect her twisted logic convinced her that if he was just out of her life, she wouldn’t need to face her concerns. She swore the clutch had promised to treat him as a little prince, and she chose to believe them.”

“Merlin’s teeth, Malfoy,” Potter’s tone was hushed. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know,” Draco replied, doing his best to seem cavalier. “The courts, of course, were told some version of the truth and as such awarded me custody. After that, I made her forget about Scorpius’ illness: I plucked every last tendril of it from her memory myself. Of course, now she thinks I’m keeping him from her out of a sense of my own superiority and the resulting judgmental spite. I’ve told her she is welcome to see him should she leave off on her dependence to potions, but she declares she cannot so long as I am keeping her child from her.”

“And I thought my situation was messy,” Potter marveled.

Draco felt his lips twitch in an unexpected smile. Potter's reaction was refreshing. Draco had acclimatised to his and Scorpius’ new reality. Indeed, he made a point of keeping the whole business with Astoria tucked neatly away. He felt no resurgence of emotion in the telling of it. Such responses only ever came when he knew Scorpius was particularly missing his mother. Those were difficult days. 

Draco had nearly forgotten how grotesquely absurd the entire ordeal was, as well as the breadth of his own sickening devastation at the time. It felt somehow reaffirming to have an outsider remind him that it really was as terrible as he remembered. 

Potter was still staring at him. “And are you...alright? Sorry, stupid question, how could you be. Bloody hell, mate, I can’t even…”

Draco’s smile widened slightly. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been called _mate_ , save for by barkeeps, but even they tended not to try that with him. He knew it was immaterial. It was probably how Potter addressed all his male acquaintances—a habit undoubtedly acquired from Weasley—but it was admittedly strange to reflect on the day: breakfast with Potter; shopping with his children; divulging the appalling nightmare that had been his life over the last year. And to have Potter respond with such open concern...it was _nice_ , Draco discovered, so pleasant and companionable. He was startled at how easy it was to imagine more afternoons like this, just sitting and talking and being Harry Potter’s...mate. 

“Yes, I’m quite alright, thank you, Potter,” Draco assured the other man, when he realised he’d left the question hanging unanswered for a moment too long. “Scorpius has been well, he enjoyed his school year. His friendship with Albus, while frustrating in its own right, has brought him a lot of happiness.”

Another apology was imminent, Draco could tell. Thankfully, the gesture was interrupted by James’ voice, sounding in the hall. 

“Dad?” the boy called.

Potter gave an exasperated sigh. “So much for ‘don’t interrupt me’,” he said dryly. He turned his head and shouted down the hall. “In the sunroom!”

Seconds passed and then James appeared in the doorway, eyeing the wingback chairs with embarrassed disdain. 

“Ted’s sent an owl. He’s staying at Uncle Bill’s for the night. From the sounds of his note, they’ve already been at the cider.”

“Alright,” Potter acknowledged. “Glad he’s having a good visit.”

“What’re we having for dinner, then?” James demanded.

Potter checked his wristwatch. “Oh, Merlin, I don’t know, Jamie. Beans on toast, probably.”

The oldest Potter boy wrinkled his nose. “You can’t be serious, Dad. I’m sick to death of beans on bloody toast. Please don’t tell me you’re honestly intending on serving that slop to Professor Malfoy.” Potter stilled as though he’d rather forgotten about Draco. Heat crept up from the collar of Potter’s T-shirt, staining his tanned neck red. This little tell pleased Draco, although he didn’t show it. It really was diverting to affect the man so.

“Oh,” Potter said, returning his eyes to Draco. “Er, yes, I should have asked about your evening plans. I suppose if we cast a disillusionment spell on Scorpius we can levitate him the few blocks to where the wards end. Or I could just carry him. Or, ah,” he paused, shooting a dubious glance at Draco’s lesser frame, “you could, of course,” he finished charitably. 

Draco was only mildly offended. He could most certainly carry his own son a matter of blocks. It wouldn’t be comfortable per se, but surely manageable. The reasonable thing, Draco knew, would be to tell Potter so and then to demonstrate as much, but that course of action would conclude with Draco at home, alone save for his unconscious son and the many accompanying anxieties. And so, he found himself rising and sweeping past Potter without gracing him with a reply.  
  


“Come along, James,” Draco said. “I’m certain we can fix us all up something significantly more appetising.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for their patience. Midterms are coming so might be a couple of weeks before I get to the next update, sadly. Really appreciate your kind comments and thoughts!!
> 
> Shout out to my incredible beta mimbelwimbel for the insight and the edits!


	13. Thirteen - Harry

Harry sat alone in the sunroom, momentarily stunned. 

The baby started crying then, heralding the end of his nap, so Harry made for his own room, where Remy’s bassinet was kept. Remy was flailing about in his little sleep sack, face red and displeased. 

“Feeling abandoned, are we?” Harry tutted, as he changed and dressed the fussing baby. 

Remy calmed somewhat once he was nestled against Harry’s chest, but Harry knew it was short-lived. If he’d learned anything about babies while raising his first three children, it was that they were never not hungry. 

He wandered towards the kitchen. He arrived in the doorway only to have a bottle thrust at him by Jamie. 

“Here,” the boy said. 

Harry was gobsmacked. It was the first thoughtful thing Jamie had done for the baby in months. Usually, Jamie’s sole involvement with Remy was to complain how the baby’s cries woke him up at night. Harry felt inordinately moved. 

“Thank you,” Harry croaked. He put the bottle to Remy’s little mouth, and the baby latched on happily. 

“Oh, don’t get all misty-eyed, Dad,” Jamie recoiled. “You really are getting barmy in your old age. I only did it because Professor Malfoy told me to.”

“You are exceedingly committed to spoiling every pleasant moment, aren’t you, James?” Malfoy mused nonchalantly. His back was to them as he enchanted a knife to dice some onions, potatoes, and sweet peppers on a cutting board. The crisp white sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and neatly creased above the elbow. Harry caught sight of the faded Dark Mark as Malfoy reached to open a cupboard overhead. It had been a long time since Harry had seen the Mark on anything, and it made his stomach lurch. It was the only part of all this that felt truly out of place in his home. 

“I’m not!” Jamie protested, bringing Harry back to the present moment, far from the oppressive terror of the war. 

“Hm,” was Malfoy’s only response. “Light the stove, won’t you? And fetch the olive oil.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie agreed. 

“What can I do?” Harry asked, bewildered. 

“Feed the baby, I expect,” Malfoy told him. “James and I have it well managed, Potter. Stay here and you’ll only be underfoot.”

“Er, right,” Harry replied, not sure how he felt about being spoken to in such a way in his own damn home. Then again, he wasn’t serving beans on toast, and Jamie wasn’t whinging endlessly and _was_ actively helping out, so Harry decided he didn’t care. He felt at a bit of a loss. He began to make his way to the drawing room, passing by Al’s closed door. Oh, Merlin, Harry thought. Scorpius was in there. If Al thought now would be a good idea for more scientific investigation, then Harry had more of a problem on his hands than he’d initially thought. He opened the door without knocking. 

To his surprise, Al wasn’t doing anything at all. The small, dark-haired boy was perched on the edge of his bed, facing Scorpius’ motionless body. Al’s fingers were curled tightly around the lip of his mattress and his face was wet with tears. 

“Al, love!” Harry exclaimed, crossing the room hastily. He sank down beside the boy. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I messed up,” Albus whispered. “I was just trying to help, but now Professor Malfoy will think Scor's medicine doesn't work, and what if it means he can’t go back to school with me?”

“I’m sure the healers can get him sorted,” Harry assured the boy, with a measure of false confidence. 

“They won't understand! And it’s all my fault. I was the one who suggested the experiments in the first place!”

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, casting a holding spell to steady the bottle in the air so he could wrap an arm around Al. “I’m sure Scorpius knows you didn’t intend him any harm.”

“I was trying to help,” Al admitted, shuffling in to press against Harry’s side. 

“Help how, love, what do you mean?”

Al didn’t answer for a moment. His hands uncurled from the bedsheet and he rubbed at the skinny knuckle of his thumb. “You won’t be mad?” he asked. 

“I’m not entirely pleased with how you went about things,” Harry answered truthfully, “but I know you didn’t mean your friend any harm. Maybe if you tell me what you did, we can figure out a solution.”

“Yeah,” Al agreed. “Yeah, alright. Okay, so please don’t tell Professor Malfoy, because Scor never wants to be a bother, but: He doesn’t like his medicine. He says it makes him feel tired and sort of fuzzy in the head. But until he can control his prophecies, he has to be on it all the time. So I thought maybe I could find a way for him to control them, the visions, I mean. I had an idea, right? But to try it, I had to come up with a way to bring them on. So that is what we set about doing when he was visiting, and we actually found two sort of triggers: getting his heart to beat really really fast, and eating a lot of sugar. I mean, a _lot_ of sugar. Scor doesn’t get many of sweets at home, and you know how Uncle George is—it’s like he has half of Honeydukes in the back of his shop—well, after we stuffed our faces there, we went to Leaky Cauldron and Professor Malfoy let us each have a butterbeer and I think that just sort of pushed Scor over the edge.”

Al pitifully wiped at his nose with his sleeve. 

Harry squeezed him tighter, kissing Al’s fine, black hair. “Oh Al, you do get into trouble, don’t you? But I think this is actually good news, isn’t it? The potion is working: it was the circumstances that brought about the attack."

"But his dad doesn't know that, and the healers won't either."

"Well, that's easy to solve, isn't it? We can tell him. Professor Malfoy would want to know all this, anyway."

"Can you tell him?" Al asked, eyes nervously downcast.

"If you'd rather I do, then of course I will."

"I would rather. He'll be horribly angry, don't you think?"

"No, I expect he's forgiven you already, and I'm sure he'll be relieved to not have to meddle with Scorpius’ dosing. You needn’t worry, Scorpius will be able to return to Hogwarts, same as you.”

“Yeah," Al agreed glumly. "I guess that's alright."

"You don't sound terribly alright. Something else troubling you?"

"I don't know. I guess it's also just that I promised, and now I've let Scor down, and I hate that." 

“What did you promise?” Harry inquired. 

“That I’d help make him better. Everyone just wants him on potions all the time, or else they want to kidnap him and make him give endless prophecies. I thought if I could teach him how to control them, then not only could he go off the potions, but he also wouldn’t be as valuable, because he could say he can’t tell the future any more or something, even if he really could.”

“It’s very noble of you to want to help your friend,” Harry started, a warmth filling his chest. He'd been starting to wonder if he'd inadvertently been raising a psychopath, and was relieved to find that was not the case.

“I don’t just want to,” Al insisted. “I think it was working.”

“What was working?” Harry asked. He was surprised the words, but then children were often skilled at convincing themselves of all sorts of nonsense.

“The thing I was teaching him. It’s a trick I learned when Mum left.”

Harry felt his instincts sharpen. He didn’t know what the boy was about to say, but Harry knew he wasn’t going to like it. 

“Can you tell me about that?” Harry said, trying to keep his tone to one of casual curiosity.

“When Mum left, I was sad,” Al began. “I was sad all the time, and I was thinking about her all the time, and I didn’t want to be. So I decided that every time I thought about her, I’d just stop.”

“So you’d just think about something else?” Harry prompted, his heart aching for the child. 

“No,” Al said. “I...you know _Obliviate_?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, not liking where this was going one bit. 

“Okay, well, I sort of fiddled with that spell. Teddy left one of his Magical Theory books here over break and I’ve been studying it. It said that making a new spell was tricky, but changing a known spell wasn’t quite so complex. And before you lecture me, I know we’re not supposed to be doing magic over the holidays but no one ever says anything if it’s in a wizarding home. Jamie summons his broom all the time, and you’ve never said anything.”

“I’m hardly upset about that,” Harry promised. “But _Obliviate_ is a very advanced spell, surely you didn’t teach yourself that?”

“No,” Al agreed. “I can’t quite get a handle on it, especially not for other people. But I could understand it enough that I could turn it into something else. So I made a, oh, I don’t know, some sort of thought-editing spell. Any time I thought about Mum I would just snip away my next five seconds of thought. I’d skip ahead, and if I was still thinking of her, I’d do it again and again until I wasn’t. And if I was dwelling on a certain memory of her, I’d snip that away, too. So it didn’t hurt so badly.”

Harry nearly choked on his own saliva he was so stunned. 

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured. 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Al assured him, wriggling to look up into Harry’s eyes. “I think I’m doing much better now.”

Harry didn’t think his heart could possibly break any more, but here he was. 

“But you erased all your memories of your mother?” he questioned.

“Not all of them!” Al explained. “I kept ones if the rest of the family was in them, mostly. I just got rid of the ones that hurt the most. Like, well, I can’t give you examples because I don’t remember them.” Al’s voice grew defiant, and he balled up his hands into fists on his lap. “I figured if she didn’t want to be in my life, she didn’t deserve to be in my memories.”

Harry felt like he had caved in on the inside: His chest was nothing but a hollow place studded with debris. 

“Don’t worry!” Al demanded. “I kept a journal. I'd write down the memory before I snipped it, mostly just to see if it worked, but that's the thing: It did! I could read the memory I'd written down afterwards, and I couldn't picture whatever scene I'd jotted down beyond the words on the page. And I think it's helping me. I’m not all crabby like Jamie, and I don’t cry all the time like Lily used to. And I was teaching it to Scorpius, so he could do the same thing, skipping ahead on his prophecies until they were over. Only he’d never had to do it in public before today, so I think he panicked. It’s good magic, though, Dad, I promise. I have the theory written out, I can show you. I was really careful.”

“I’m sure you were, love,” Harry murmured. “You always are. I just hate that you felt this was how you needed to deal with all this. You know you can come to me to talk about these things.”

“You’re busy,” Al pointed out. “I know babies are a lot of work. And you’re tired and I think you’re sad, too, I can tell. Oh, but hey! Maybe I can teach you the spell and—”

“No!” Harry interrupted, too harshly. Al jumped. “Sorry. Sorry, I know you’re trying to help, Al. I...I’m just not sure I want you to never feel pain. I mean, I’m your dad, of course I don’t want you to hurt, only it’s not real life, is it? To cut away the bits you don’t want?” Al’s lip began to tremble. “Not that I’m not terribly proud of you—altering a spell at your age shows just how clever you are—but I do wish you could have talked to me about it first.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Al whispered, his voice quavered and he looked up at Harry with big eyes. “I wasn’t trying to make you upset. I really wanted to help Scor, is all, and he didn’t want any grown-ups involved, because they never listen.”

“I know, sweetheart. It was very decent of you to try and protect your friend,” Harry told him. “But in future, can you please make an effort to talk to me before you make big mind-altering decisions? For yourself or anyone else?”

“Dad! Al! Lily! Dinner!” Jamie’s voice resounded down the hall. Harry startled. When he did, Remy gagged on the bottle which sent him to shrieking and spitting up. Al giggled and wiped his eyes. 

Harry cursed and stood, rearranging Remy so he was more upright. He vomited dispassionately onto Harry’s shoulder. Harry sighed, spelling away the sick a couple of times. 

“Go wash up and make sure your sister does the same,” Harry told Al. The boy seemed happy enough with the instructions and left the room. Harry looked around at the mad eruption of trinkets and loose parchment that was Albus’ room. At the slight rise and fall of Scorpius’ shoulders as he slept. At the sketches and notebooks and little diagrams Al had Spellotaped to the wall. How could Harry have been so oblivious? He’s put his own pain above his children’s; it was reprehensible. 

Al’s certainty in his quest to erase memories of Ginny from his mind, Merlin, it made Harry weak with despair. Did Al not think Ginny would come back then? Even Harry hadn’t dealt with that possibility, not really. He’d thought perhaps he could just wait her out. That one day, he’d come home to find her humming along to The Wyrd Sisters, her slippered feet propped up on the ottoman, Remy bouncing on her knee. He thought of her smiling at Lily’s stories and giving Jamie Quidditch tips and scouring Al’s sketches of fantastical contraptions: asking him questions and offering advice. She’d been happy, hadn’t she? Surely some of the time, she’d been happy. Maybe not with Harry, but with the children, he couldn’t believe she hadn’t loved them, he wouldn’t. She’d loved them and still she’d done this: to him, to them. It made him shake with suppressed fury, at himself or at her he couldn’t say. 

“Dad!” Jamie shouted. “Everyone’s waiting, come _on_!”

**_/// ///_ **

“You’re sitting in Mummy’s spot,” Lily unhelpfully informed Malfoy as Harry put Remy in his cradling swing and magicked it into motion. He then joined his children and Malfoy at the cramped kitchen table where the family ate most of their meals. The dining room table, Harry realised guiltily, was still cluttered with breakfast things. 

“Am I?” Malfoy asked, unperturbed.

“Lily, please,” Harry interjected, “Professor Malfoy is welcome to sit wherever he chooses.”

“That’s not true,” Lily argued. “He can’t have my seat.”

“Professor Malfoy is a guest, Lils,” Al pointed out. “You’re supposed to be polite to guests and let them have your chair and such.”

“If he’s a guest,” Lily answered, her voice sharp with scrutiny, “how come he’s the one who made dinner? Aren’t you supposed to make dinner for your guests? Daddy, I don’t think you’re being a very good hostess.”

“It’s host,” Al corrected her. “Boys are hosts, girls are hostesses.”

“I like hostess, better,” Lily insisted. “It sounds fancy.”

“Thank you for dinner, it’s delicious,” Harry said to Malfoy, ignoring his bickering children. He was telling the truth. The roast chicken was moist and well-seasoned with herbs Harry hadn’t even known they’d had. Harry had to admit it was easily the best meal served at this table since he’d been left in charge of the cooking.

“James was a great help,” Malfoy replied. 

“Thank you, Jamie,” Harry said. “I really do appreciate it.”

“It’s fine, Dad, whatever,” the boy replied. 

“When did you learn to cook, anyway?” Al asked his brother suspiciously.

“It’s like making potions, isn’t it?” Jamie fired back. “You just follow what it says in a book or what have you.”

“Didn’t know you could read, is all,” Al retorted, clearly just to get a rise out of his elder brother. 

“At least I’m not a fucking crybaby!” Jamie fired back.

“Jamie, language!” Harry said sternly. “Can’t we just have a pleasant meal for once?”

“There you go, taking his side again!” the teenager exploded.

Harry groaned. “Al, apologise to your brother for being unkind.”

“I don’t want his apology,” Jamie seethed. “I don’t need the apologies of pitiful little snakes who poison the only friends they have!”

Al looked stricken, tears welling up in his wide grey-green eyes.

“James,” Harry said, voice deathly serious. The rest of the table fell silent. “Drawing room. Now.”

For once, the boy listened. 

**_/// ///_ **

Harry entered the drawing room first. He faced the fireplace, waiting for the storm of frustration and sorrow in his chest to calm. From behind, Harry heard James pad meekly into the room. 

Between Harry and Ginny, she had always been more the disciplinarian. She used to say Harry would see one quivering lip and fall to pieces. “You don’t always get to be the fun parent,” she used to say. “When you do that, I always come off looking like a villain, when all I want is children who can live peaceably in society. That shouldn’t be too much to ask. I know it is hard to set limits, Harry, really, I do. But sometimes you’re setting them for the kids’ own good, alright? If you want them to be likeable and successful and thoughtful humans, sometimes you have to tell them when they are being insufferable little twits. You can do it nicely, but they have to hear it.” Harry had, of course, agreed, but he’d continued to side-step the issue, mostly letting Ginny pick up the slack. Another item to add to the growing list of why she’d left.

“Dad?” James said quietly. 

Harry took a final shuddering breath. 

“Jamie,” he began, keeping his voice steady and low, “this has to stop.” Harry furrowed his brows as he turned to face his eldest child. The explosive rage he’d felt moments earlier had wilted into exhaustion. “Can you please just tell me what is going on with you so I can figure out how to help?”

“There’s nothing going one with me,” the boy sputtered, crossing his arms. “Al’s the one who is always being a little shit!”

“That’s not what this is about,” Harry replied in the same gentle tone as before. “I think you know that. Look, love, I can understand if you’ve been hurting since your mother left. I know I’ve been preoccupied with the baby and your sister and my own grief, and I’ve not been there for you in all the ways I would like to have been, and sweetheart, I’m sorry for that, I am. But all this endless squabbling is tearing apart the family we have left. I’m sure it feels justified, but James, all the anger in the world isn’t going to change how things are now. No matter what you fling at me, I can’t make your Mum come back.”

“Have you even tried?”

Harry exhaled, and sank onto the sofa, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Your mother knows I’m very eager to discuss things with her. If she asked, I’d drop everything to meet her. But her silence means she’s not ready for that.”

“Well then make her be ready!” Jamie cried out. 

“Sweetheart,” Harry replied, “I can’t make people do things, and I wouldn’t, even if I could. Your mother is her own person and she gets to make decisions for herself.”

The boy deflated, then, slumping down on the loveseat across from Harry. “I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t know why she decided she didn’t want us any more.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Harry said. “I’m sure it’s not that. I’m sure there’s something we don’t understand. She wanted you from the very beginning.”

“Remy, then,” Jamie muttered and Harry felt his guts lurch because he wasn’t sure the boy was wrong. 

“A new baby when you thought you were done with that stage of life is a surprise,” Harry allowed. “Babies are tiring. They take a lot of work. I think maybe your mum’s just a bit unwell, is all. Maybe with Remy it all felt like too much stress. We don’t know.”

“Why are you defending her?” James growled, drawing his knees up to his chest and huddling behind them. 

“Would my raging at her be better? Calling her names? Making assumptions about how she feels or what she has felt in the past? Do you truly think that would help?”

“I don’t know what will help, because nothing seems to!" his son spat, so bitterly it made Harry flinch. “I miss her all the time, but I’m so mad at her, too, to the point where I don’t think I would see her even if she wanted me to. I want to make her feel like I do; I want her to hurt like this so she knows what it’s like, but I can’t even do that because she won’t tell us where she is. And what if I never find out? What if she just left for good, and I never even got to say goodbye? What if I walk by her on the street ten years from now and she doesn’t even recognise me?”

Harry rose and stepped round the small coffee table until he stood in front of his son. He crouched and reached out, touching Jamie’s cheek with a tentative palm. For once, the boy didn’t cringe away at the affectionate gesture. 

“I don’t know the future,” Harry said, honestly. “But I truly don’t think it will play out like that. I think when your mother’s had some time, when she’s ready, she’ll be desperate to see you again.”

“You think things will ever go back to how they were?”

Harry paused, biting back the 'of course' that manifested on the tip of his tongue. Three weeks ago, he might have wanted to believe that dream. Then, he would have taken Ginny back the moment she walked through the door with nothing but tearful apologies. Something had shifted recently, however, and Harry realised that that certainty had wavered. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not sure things can ever be just as they were before. Whatever your mother’s reasons, she’s hurt me, and worse, she’s hurt all of you. I might have a hard time trusting her the way I used to. But I will never keep her from you, unless you want me to. I will never get in the way of any of you having a relationship with her. Whatever she feels towards me, I know she loves you, fiercely.”

“Funny way of showing it,” grumbled Jamie, shifting away from Harry’s touch. It wasn’t quite a rejection, Harry decided, the moment had just carried on too long: Jamie had to be feeling raw and uncomfortable, the added intimacy would be understandably too much. 

“I know,” Harry agreed. He sat down beside his son, letting their arms rest lightly alongside each other. “And I know Al was baiting you in there. It was very good of you to help with supper.”

Jamie shrugged, easing in closer. Harry sensed the boy wanted contact but didn’t want to show it. 

“Professor Malfoy knows about things,” Jamie told him. “It’s like he teaches all the time. Which I would think should be boring or infuriating, but it somehow isn’t. It’s like...he’s really hard to impress, but sometimes you get the answer right and he’s quite pleased with you, and that feels good, you know?”

“You’re perfectly capable with or without Professor Malfoy’s praise,” Harry reminded his son. 

“I know,” Jamie assured him. “But he just...speaks to me like I’m a grown-up. He doesn’t talk down to me. Well, he does, but in that way he talks down to everyone, because that’s just what he’s like, and not because I’m only fourteen. And he tells me stuff.”

“Stuff?” Harry asked, not quite liking the sound of that. 

“Like war stuff," Jamie's voice lowered conspiratorially, "I saw his Dark Mark and I asked if he could tell me about it. He said he doesn’t believe in coddling children when it comes to history, lest they be doomed to repeat it, so he’d answer any questions I had!”

“Ah,” Harry acknowledged. He personally preferred the coddling approach, if he was being honest with himself. “And what did he tell you?”

“He said he had been taught from when he had been just a kid that purebloods were superior, and that he had really believed it, right up until the war. He said he had even cast some Unforgivables, that he had tortured people. He talked about when Voldemort had lived in his house, and about how frightened he had been, how seeing someone so terrible wield all that power had made him sick with dread. He said he had been a coward, that he had done things he would never forgive himself for because he had been too scared to speak out.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” Harry informed his son. “He’d have been tortured or worse if he’d said a word against Voldemort.”

“That’s what I said, and he said maybe he should have let that happen. That that’s what you would have done.”

“Merlin,” Harry winced. “He didn’t mince words, I see.”

“I didn’t want him to. You never tell me what it was like, Dad. I know you were there and everyone says you were this big deal, that you ended the whole war. I’ve even read about it, but it doesn’t seem real, because you always brush me off, like it wasn’t this whole thing. But it was, and I want to know about it.”

“I suppose,” Harry responded hesitantly, “that the trouble is that _I_ don’t want _you_ to. Know about it, I mean. I think a big part of me wants you to remain young and blissfully ignorant forever. I want you to think the world is a beautiful, incredible place full of goodness and wonder.”

“But it isn’t,” Jamie pointed out bluntly.

“No, it isn’t,” Harry agreed. “The war, well, it’s difficult for me to speak of, love. I spent some time truly believing I wouldn’t live to see twenty. I was...angry. Angry and determined, and no one else could understand the weight of it all, not truly. I thought I was destined to die to protect a world that had not once protected me. Nothing felt safe, not even my own mind.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Jamie, looking unexpectedly saddened and shaken. 

Harry sighed, wondering anxiously if he was right to disclose all that. “We can discuss it if you really wish to, sweetheart, but perhaps later, how about? Dinner’s getting cold and the swing will only keep Remy content for so long. But another day.”

“You’re not just saying that?” insisted Jamie. 

“No,” Harry promised. “I’d rather you hear it from me that whatever spin you’ll find cooked up in books and magazines.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jamie replied, voice quiet, almost reverent, like he’d not believed Harry would ever agree to his request. “I’d like that. And I’m sorry about earlier. I’ll try not to let Al get to me. He’s just such a little arsehole sometimes.”

“I know,” Harry acknowledged. “I’ll try not to let him get away with it, either, but I think you hit a nerve there, with what you said about Scorpius. He’s awfully concerned.”

“Yeah,” Jamie responded. “It was a low blow, I knew it as soon as I said it.”

“It’s alright. You’ll make up, you always do. Now, do you want to come back and at least get to taste the meal you worked so hard on, or do you want to escape to your room for a bit?”

“I’ll come back,” Jamie agreed, rising and heading towards the kitchen. “Don’t want everyone thinking I’m a coward.”

Jamie said ‘everyone’ but Harry had a niggling suspicion that what he meant was ‘Professor Malfoy’. Harry didn’t press. 

“Jamie,” he said instead. His son turned back round to face him. “I love you an impossible amount, I hope you know that.”

“Merlin, Dad,” Jamie huffed. He rolled his eyes, and strode off.

**_/// ///_ **

After dinner, with Remy safely asleep in his swing, Harry set about clearing both tables and tackling the dishes. 

“I’ll just check on Scorpius,” Malfoy said after Harry had waved him off, refusing to let the man do more work than he already had. 

Harry hummed his agreement, filling the sink with water and watching the suds rise. 

“Can I come?” Al asked Malfoy.

“Albus,” Harry warned, “leave Professor Malfoy alone. Here, you can help me in the kitchen.”

Al made an unimpressed noise, but consented, taking a cloth from Harry’s hand and wiping down the surfaces. Malfoy stepped out of the room, making his way down the hall.

“It’s stupid that I have to do this when you could complete it in half the time with magic,” Al informed Harry. 

“And if magic were to disappear one day, you’d need to know how to manually clear a table,” Harry countered. 

“That’s absurd,” Al said. “Where would magic go? And besides, I know how to wipe off a table. You only need to do it once to know how to do that.”

“Well, then because you’re saving me some effort. And your granny always says, sometimes you have to use a bit of elbow grease. Magic doesn’t always cut it.”

Al snorted, obviously not convinced, but he didn’t put up any more of a fight. 

“Scor!” he cried out suddenly. Harry looked up from the sink to see Scorpius stumble into the kitchen. He looked horribly bedraggled: pale and brittle as chalk. His father stood behind him, lips pursed unhappily. 

“I was hoping the sleep spell would be fully reversible,” Malfoy pointed out, catching his son round the arm to steady him, “but it seems to have taken a bit of a toll. Thankfully, the prophesying hasn’t resumed.” He ushered Scorpius, whose eyelids were already drooping, over to the table. “Here, dearest. Wait a moment and I’ll fix you a bit of a snack.”

“There’s not much in the way of leftovers,” Harry commented, guiltily. “I think the kids were too excited to be eating decent food for once.”

“Toast will do,” Malfoy replied. He lit a small fire below the cast iron grid atop the stove, while Al hurried to cut off a couple of thick slices of bread. Harry was relieved Molly Weasley had made a habit of keeping the Potter family’s ice box well-stocked over the years, so at least they had loaves to spare. Harry eyed the wilted blond boy slouching at the table for another moment.  
  


“It’s no trouble to keep him here for the night,” Harry blurted out. “You can Apparate home and Floo back in the morning. Or I can make up one of the guest rooms if you’d rather stay close. With a family as big as Gin’s, we have several.”

“Yes! Please let Scor stay, Professor!” Al enthused. “He likes it here, he told me so. And you’ll just be down the hall, so you won’t have to worry about being too far away! Scor says you have a whole separate wing of the house at the Manor. So really, it’s better here. I mean, if he had another nightmare you could get to him right quick.”

Harry felt his cheeks flush as Malfoy examined him intently. “Thank you for the offer, Potter,” the other man said finally. “That is very generous of you.”

“That’s a yes, then? Wicked!” Al exclaimed. “Some butter for the toast, do you think, Professor?” he asked. “Or we’ve got some almond spread in the pantry, if he’d like that better?”

“The latter will suffice, thank you, Albus,” Malfoy asserted. 

“It’s pulling teeth to get my children to help me,” Harry remarked, as Al rifled through the large, walk-in pantry. “And yet they trip over themselves to do things for you.”

“It’s the novelty of my being here,” Malfoy assured him. “It will wear off in time.”

Harry gave him a lopsided grin. “Planning on coming round to cook for us often then?” He’d meant it as a tease, but Malfoy’s customary drawl was more like a challenge when he responded:

“And what if I am?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so instead of studying I wrote this 5000 word chapter (and the next chapter too, which will be posted hopefully within the week), largely due to who I am as a person. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter, your kindness continues to give me the dopamine I crave. 
> 
> A special thank you to my infatigable beta, MimbelWimbel, for de-capitalizing all my "He said"s and so much more.
> 
> Also, some of the ideas (especially erasing painful memories) from this are borrowed from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I just think it is such an intriguing philosophical idea that I wanted to play around with it some!


	14. Fourteen - Draco

Draco couldn’t for the life of him understand why’d he’d alluded to such a thing, save for his knowing that it would induce the mottled rosy blush currently creeping along Potter’s neck and staining his cheeks. There were few things in this world as delightful as unsteadying Harry Potter, Draco determined. The other man stammered awkwardly, looking agog at Draco, as if praying he’d take the words back and restore some sort of equilibrium. 

“You really should, Professor,” Albus offered, stepping up alongside Draco to place two slices of home-baked bread on the heated grill. “That dinner was way better than anything Dad makes. And that’s not being disrespectful,” he hurried to add, “it’s just the truth.”

“Al…” Harry croaked, still sending desperate signals with his eyes for Draco to undig this particular hole.

Draco was rescued from atoning for his crimes against Potter, however, because just at that moment, Scorpius’ head fell to the table with an unfortunate thud. 

“Oh, Merlin!” Potter sprang over to check on the boy before Draco could do the same. Potter had a hand on Scorpius’ shoulder, shaking him gently as he crouched and said the boy’s name. 

“Harry?” Scorpius asked, sounding confused. He raised his head, lifting a sluggish hand to rub the cheekbone that had taken the brunt of the fall. 

“A bit tired, there, love?” Potter asked. 

Scorpius nodded, still looking a bit dazed. “Yeah,” he agreed. 

“Well, your dad’s just making you some toast with almond butter and then you can go back to sleep, how’s that?” 

“Yeah,” Scorpius said again. 

“Feeling alright otherwise?” Potter probed. “No headache or anything?”

“Jus’ tired,” Scorpius slurred. 

Potter stood and squeezed Scorpius’ shoulder affectionately. Draco waited for the customary flare of protectiveness that he typically got when other adults were interacting with his child, but it didn’t come. Even his damn subconscious seemed to trust the man. 

Draco used magic to flip the toast, summoning a plate from the cupboard. Albus was at his elbow with a butter knife and the almond spread, intent on being helpful. 

Lily appeared in the doorway, crossing her arms. “Dad,” she said, glaring accusingly at Potter, “don’t I get some toast, too?”

“You just had dinner,” Potter pointed out. 

“Ages ago,” Lily argued, although it couldn’t have been more than an hour.

“Yes, alright, if you’re hungry,” Potter agreed. “Al, would you cut another slice for your sister, please?”

Looking smugly satisfied, Lily joined Scorpius at the table. 

“You slept the whole afternoon,” she told the boy, her nose wrinkling, critically.

“Leave him alone, Lils,” Albus ordered her. The boy’s watchfulness made Draco smile inwardly. He transferred the toast onto the plate and passed it to Albus in exchange for a fresh slice of bread which Draco put over the flames. 

“I didn’t do anything!” Lily insisted.

“Liar,” Albus said, his eyes narrowed.

“Shut up, Al. I’m allowed to talk to people. There’s no law against that.” Lily flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder, and began to braid it. She sniffed, her little button nose raising superciliously into the air. “Professor Malfoy,” she began, as if to prove her point about talking to people, “did Dad tell you about _toasters_?”

“He did not,” Draco replied, honestly. 

“They’re Muggle contraptions that toast bread for you. Without fire!”

“Ingenious, I’m sure,” Draco assured her. 

“Grandad had a toaster in his collection of Muggle inventions,” Lily continued. “And Godiva Greatstrides has one, too. Only her brothers enchanted the toaster to deconstruct the toast into just like flour and eggs and yeast instead.” Lily emitted a long-suffering sigh as she finished off her braids. “I really relate to Godiva,” she announced. “Brothers are a major pain. Well, Jamie’s alright because he plays Quidditch with me sometimes. And Remy’s just a baby.” She seemed under the illusion that her complete lack of subtlety was both clever and cutting. 

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly familiar with Miss Greatstrides,” Draco admitted. 

“You haven’t read any?!” Lily said, leaping up from her chair. “She’s the greatest Squib who ever lived. Well, I mean, she’s not real, but if she was, she would definitely be the greatest. I’ll go—”

Potter stopped her with a gentle little tug to her quickly unraveling braid. “Maybe after your snack, LiLu, yeah?”

“Is Scorpius staying the night again?” Lily asked. 

“Yeah,” Potter told her. “He’s not feeling well, so no harm in letting him crash with Al one more night.”

“I never get to have slumber parties,” Lily mourned, flopping down at the table again. 

“Well, maybe…” Potter started, then trailed off crestfallen, as though realising other young witches’ parents might not be as willing to let them stay the night without a mother in the home. Draco suspected people might make exceptions for war heroes, though. 

“Are you staying the night, too, then?” Lily demanded. It took Draco a moment to realise she was speaking to him. 

“I am,” he said. 

“Good,” she decided. “You can sit in on bedtime and listen to a chapter of Godiva Greatstrides. I’m an excellent reader.”

**_/// ///_ **

Scorpius only managed to get down one slice of toast before dozing off again at the table, his cheek in his hand. He really must be exhausted, Draco mused, as usually the boy would never prop an elbow up on the dinner table. 

Albus was looking at his friend with concern. 

“Fetch me a fork,” Draco instructed. Albus hurried to do so, and Draco transfigured it into a toothbrush with only a little bit of added fanfare for Lily Potter’s benefit. He doubted a bit of simple transfiguration would impress her brother. 

“Can you make it glow?” the girl asked, a hint of challenge in her voice. 

“I can,” Draco agreed, making no move to do so. 

“Then do it!” Lily insisted. 

“Manners, Lily,” Potter interjected. 

“Please, can you make the toothbrush glow, Professor?” Lily requested, her voice saccharine. 

Draco did with one last flourish of his wand, and Lily gave a satisfied nod. 

Draco led a sleepy Scorpius down the hall and into a crowded crime scene of a bathroom: there was toothpaste smeared on at least three surfaces and the mirror was more filmy speckles than it was clear glass. He closed the toilet lid and sat Scorpius down, handing him a toothbrush. 

“Don’t forget those molars!” the mirror prompted, unhelpfully. Scorpius obeyed, only drifting off twice more. Draco helped his son wash his face, then the two made their way to Albus’ bedroom. Scorpius stepped out of his trousers and under the covers. 

“Sorry, Dad,” he murmured. 

“It’s alright, dearest. Not your fault,” Draco brushed aside a bit of hair from the boy’s forehead.

“It’s just that Mr. Weasley had these Homunculi Humbugs, little striped creatures that stomped across the counter and grumbled as you ate them. It sounds awful now, but it really was terribly funny. They tasted of peppermint.”

Draco couldn’t follow the boy’s story at all. He didn’t know why Scorpius thought whatever ghastly abomination George Weasley had cooked up would incite an episode. Unfortunately, the boy slid back into sleep without further clarification. 

Draco kissed his son’s brow, and returned to the kitchen.

**_/// ///_ **

“Dad sits beside me,” Lily told Draco, an hour later. Albus was on his bed, reading, and James had taken off to his room in the basement shortly after supper, a speckled brown barred owl bobbing along behind him. And now, Draco was following Potter and his tyrannical daughter to her bedroom. “But I’ve got a giant squid Granny’s knit into a pouffe for me, so you can probably sit there.”

“Or on the desk chair, love,” Potter pointed out. Remus was dozing in his arms.

Lily seemed to briefly deliberate the issue. “No,” she decided, “I think the squid would be better.”

Potter shot Draco a contrite glance, which Draco waved off. “I’ve never sat on a giant squid pouffe before,” he acknowledged. “It will be a novel experience, I’m sure.”

And so, they entered Lily’s bedroom, which was painted in vivid purples and greens. There were five posters: two Quidditch (the Cannons and the Harpies) and three Godiva Greatstrides, a brown haired, olive-skinned cartoon girl with a bun fixed high atop each side of her head. A messy bookcase was in one corner of the room, and a white dresser with golden handles in the other. The bed was large and canopied with white and canary yellow tulle. Potter sat himself down on it, swinging his legs up and awkwardly shuffling himself up against the headboard, holding the baby securely to his chest. 

Also Spellotaped to the offensively bright walls were various paintings of magical beasts. Enchanted figurines of unicorns stamped and paraded along the window sill, swishing their tails magnanimously. The room was clearly the girl’s kingdom. 

From the closet, Lily dragged the aforementioned squid, which was really more just like a grey heap of wool with a few fraying tendrils, and presented it to Draco. 

“Here,” she directed, before climbing up onto her bed, pressing in against Potter’s side. 

Draco perched on the mushy wool pouffe while Lily read aloud from her book. Godiva Greatstrides was mostly drivel, and a bit hard to follow, what with Lily pausing every few minutes to explain convoluted plot points for Draco’s benefit. There were, however, a few moments of cheek in the story that Draco could appreciate. 

Potter had taken off his glasses and was slumped against the headboard, his cheek pressed to his daughter’s hair and his eyes closed. Lily was prattling on about the mysterious cairngorm brooch Godiva had unearthed back in book three. Draco was nodding and making appreciative noises, but his gaze kept drifting back to Potter. The stern talk that must have elapsed between James and Potter during dinner had clearly exhausted the man. James had, however, been somewhat less surly for the remainder of the meal, even apologising to Albus, so something beneficial must have transpired between Potter and his eldest. Then again, teenagers were predictable only in the lability of their moods, so who could say, really.

Pansy always commended Draco for sticking to one child. “One child means only one teenager,” she’d say, sagely, as though she’d survived the latter herself. Draco wasn't fazed at the thought, however. He doubted Scorpius even at his most rebellious would measure up to what Draco had survived during his decade teaching at Hogwarts. 

Potter’s face slackened and his head lolled off his daughter’s and onto his chest. The man was clearly asleep. 

“He always does this,” Lily informed Draco. “Don’t worry, I know how to wake him up.” She brought an elbow forward, as if winding up to dig it into her father's ribs.

“Lily, leave him,” Draco interrupted quickly. "Your father’s tired. Let him have a bit of rest, hmm?"

Lily looked momentarily disappointed at not getting to show off her father-rousing skills, but then shrugged. 

"Alright," she said, leafing through the book. "Only a few pages left in this chapter anyway."

Draco stood, leaning over the girl to take the baby from Potter’s lap. “Why don’t you finish up reading it to me and Remus?”

“You mean Remy?” Lily said. “No one calls him Remus because that was Teddy’s dad. He died in the war, but Dad doesn’t like to talk about things like that, so I don’t know much about the first Remus.”

“Remy, then,” Draco said, hoping that was the best way to sidestep it. Privately, though, he was a little surprised. How was it that Potter’s children were all so ignorant of the man's own experiences? Draco would have expected the Potter children to have been raised on war stories. The little redheaded baby squirmed in Draco's arms, so he readjusted and began to bounce Remus, or Remy, rather, gently. 

“He likes that,” Lily affirmed, and commenced her reading. 

**_/// ///_ **

The chapter finished and before Draco could stop her, Lily launched herself onto Potter's lap. He lurched awake with a cry, momentary terror in his eyes. His arms jerked violently, but didn’t lash out. Draco recognised that pattern of behaviour from his own reaction to being startled awake and he felt for the man. The loss of control, no matter how momentary, could be sickening.

“Merlin, Lily,” Potter scolded anxiously, once he seemed to remember where he was. “You’ve got to be careful when you wake me, you know that. You could get hurt.”

Lily didn’t look convinced. “It’s been ages since you acted all weird,” she told him. “And just with Jamie that one time. I’m pretty sure you don’t do that anymore.”

“Well,” Potter muttered, looking for his glasses in the bedsheets. “I’ll still prefer if you didn’t risk it...oh Merlin, where’s your brother?”

Lily giggled and pointed to Draco, who was still standing beside the bed. Remy had fallen asleep again, and was drooling contentedly on Draco’s sleeve. 

“Right,” Potter said dazedly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to nod off there.”

“It’s no bother,” Draco responded. “But I suspect he might need changing.”

Lily wrinkled her nose and Potter cursed under his breath, rising. 

“Sorry,” he said again. “Here, I’ll take him.”

“Daddy, no!” Lily said crossly. “You haven’t even sung yet, it’s still my turn!”

“I can change a nappy, Potter,” Draco informed the man. “Just point me in the right direction.”

Potter looked stunned again, running an unsettled hand through his unruly hair. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he protested. 

“No,” Draco agreed, “I don’t. But I am offering.”

“Please, Daddy?” Lily urged. 

“Er, yes, alright. Fine. Lily, teeth and pyjamas and then I’ll come sing,” Potter caved, looking helplessly at Draco. “And, ah, yeah, Remy sleeps in my room still, but his change table and footie pyjamas are in the nursery. I’ll show you.”

_**/// ///**_

Once the baby was changed, Draco took Remy back to the kitchen. It had only been a couple of hours since he’d been given a bottle, so Draco didn’t suppose he needed to be fed. Draco had seen a little play mat with an illusory mobile overhead in the drawing room, so he brought the thing into the kitchen and placed the baby there. Remy seemed happy enough, cooing and reaching for the dancing, uncatchable fairies overhead. 

Draco set his magic to work: cleaning and stacking the toast dishes and tidying the crumbs. A faint lullaby drifted down the hall in Potter’s warm baritone. 

Draco spelled the sink dry, then looked up. The window caught the candlelight, revealing his reflection. He studied it for a moment. There were no revelations to be found in the glass. His hair line had receded somewhat at the temples in the last few years, which he supposed he could do something about, but he fancied it gave him a bit of a distinguished air. There were some fine lines on his forehead, but nothing shocking. He’d spent too many years in dark laboratories avoiding the sun to do himself damage. His cheeks were perhaps a bit hollower than usual. He had a bad habit of skipping meals when involved in a task, and he’d been particularly neglectful in Brazil. But there were no alarming differences to explain away the buzz of promise and change he’d been ignoring in his ribcage. No, he looked how he always looked, it was only the setting that was different. The welcoming glow of Potter's well-worn kitchen was not at all reminiscent of the cool granite and black iron stove of the Manor, but Draco found he didn't mind his new surroundings, although none of the design elements were to usual tastes. He tilted his head, examining this response. His reflection did the same. 

The truth was, Draco had no fucking idea what he was doing. 

He didn’t know why he was still in Potter’s house, pretending like it was an impossibility to carry his son the blocks required to Apparate home. He didn’t know why he’d decided to cook a large family dinner, or listen to a bedtime story, or change a nappy, or wash Potter’s dishes. He just knew that for some indiscernible reason, he found he liked it here. He liked the chaos, and the guile it took to shape Jamie into someone agreeable. He liked the warmth and heft of having a baby in his arms again, after so many years, and he especially liked Potter’s furtive glances, rife with relieved confusion. 

“Al,” it was Potter’s voice in the hall. There was a brief knock, followed by the click of the boy’s bedroom door being opened. “Half an hour, then it’s time to start getting ready for bed.”

“Alright,” Albus grumbled. The door was shut again.

Draco heard Potter shuffle into the kitchen, greeting the baby with a “Hello, little chappy. Catch any sprites yet?” The man yawned and looked about, blinking at the sparkling kitchen. “You really don’t have to keep cleaning up after me, not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“The toast was my doing,” Draco replied. 

“Alright,” Potter conceded. “Well. Er. What now?” 

“Lily was exceptionally accurate in her assessment: You’re a terrible hostess,” Draco pointed out, allowing himself a small smirk. 

Potter chuckled. “Just a bit dead on my feet, I’m afraid.”

“Why don’t you take Remy to the drawing room,” the words came out more as a statement than a request, but Potter didn’t seem to mind. “I’ll make some tea.”

Potter yawned again, gathered his son and the mat, and left Draco to his task.

While rifling through the cupboards for tea, Draco came across a half empty bottle of Firewhisky shoved into a dark corner and, apparently, forgotten. He opted for that instead of tea, feeling they both deserved it after such a hellish, never-ending day. He poured a couple of fingers’ worth into each glass and made his way to the living room. Potter was collapsed in one corner of the loveseat. 

“Potter,” Draco said, extending one of the tumblers. 

“What? Oh! Merlin,” Potter commented, “where did you find that? Actually, I don’t care. Cheers.” He accepted the glass and took a sip, sighing. 

Draco took a seat on the sofa opposite of him. The Firewhisky burned its course down his throat. It was, he admitted, a bit startling. It had been years since he’d had the stuff. 

Potter finally leaned forward, rubbing at the back of his neck. He was going to give himself a rash if he didn’t cut it out. “I have a confession to make about my terrible son,” he admitted. 

“Which one?” Draco replied crisply. 

Potter groaned miserably. “Touché. Al, this time.”

“Very well,” Draco said. “What is it?”

“He’s told me a bit more about the, er, experiments? That he and Scorpius got up to? It’s sugar, I guess. Sugar or a high enough heart rate, either will trigger an attack. George always loads them up with sweets. I should have mentioned something, it just slipped my mind. So. He’s alright, Scorpius, I mean. It was just the sugar that brought it on, so I don’t think you’ll need to fiddle with the dosing.”

“Intriguing,” Draco mused, evaluating this new information. It certainly illuminated his conversation with Scorpius. He’d wondered about inciting events himself, but he’d not wanted to make a guinea pig out of his child. He wasn’t surprised he hadn’t come across these particular triggers himself. He didn’t allow a great deal of sweets in the home, and Scorpius had never been much interested in athletics. “And did he say what his intentions were, your terrible child? What were his plans for the prophecies he accumulated?”

Potter blinked. “Oh. I didn’t think of that. He seemed more interested in the giving of them than the content. He said he thought he could teach Scorpius to keep them from happening.”

Draco smiled. Ah, the hubris of youth. “Did he now?”

Potter didn’t smile back. “The thing is,” he said slowly, “I think he might have been onto something.”

“Potter, you think if I could have found a spell to heal my son, I wouldn’t have tried it?” Draco felt irritation at the mere implication of neglect. 

“He didn’t find it,” Potter hurried to clarify. “He created it.”

“Explain,” Draco ordered. 

Potter took another sip of his drink before placing it down on the stained coffee table. Draco itched to produce a coaster. 

“Without my knowing,” Potter started, “Albus has been dealing with Gin’s leaving by just—Merlin, I hate to even say it—erasing his own memories. And not just retroactively, either, from what I understand. He jumps ahead with it, cutting out his next few seconds of thought. He was trying to teach Scorpius to do the same.”

Draco stared. “Are you absolutely certain?” he asked. “Mind magic is very complex—”

“I’m not a complete idiot,” Potter interrupted, a flash of his own irritation sparking in those green eyes. “And he’s only just told me, so I have no proof. Perhaps it is his imagination, I know kids can believe the wild notions they dream up. But you have to understand: Al is very determined. When he wants something, he will take pains to get it.”

“I see,” Draco acknowledged. It did fit with the obstinate dedication the Potter boy had occasionally shown at school. But still, mind magic? It hardly seemed feasible. “And did he tell you the name of this spell? The amount of sugar or the heart rate required to bring about an attack?”

Potter just shook his head. “I didn’t ask for specifics. I just know whatever he thinks he’s created is a derivative of _Obliviate_.”

“I’ll need to speak with him some more,” Draco insisted. “And I must know if he's collected any prophecies. If he has, they ought to be destroyed.

“Yeah, of course,” Potter agreed. “Can it wait a bit, though? I know it seems like he’s been reckless but he’s also upset. His heart was in the right place and such. It’s just that he’s hurting, we’re all hurting, and he didn’t want to—” Potter’s voice broke, his frustration devolving into sorrow. “He didn’t want to fucking inconvenience me. Hell, I’ve bollocksed this all up. So busy moping, my own kids feel like they can’t talk to me. And here am I, moping some more. Well.” He took a long sip of his Firewhisky. “I’ve got to get it together, is all. I’ve no choice.”

“Potter,” Draco admonished, “I’m all for self-reflection and self-improvement, but all this contrition is getting preposterous. You’ve been left alone, completely out of the blue from what I gather, with a young infant and three children who are confused and miserable, and nevertheless, you're trying to make a go of it. Albus and Lily are in good spirits, James is fourteen so I don’t know what else you could possibly expect—fourteen year olds are virtually incapable of _not_ endlessly sniping—and Remy is a responsive, bright little thing who has obviously witnessed no neglect. This doubt and self flagellation serves no purpose, and will certainly not lead to your being a more attentive father.”

Potter looked up at him and, to Draco’s surprise, grinned. 

“Merlin,” Potter marveled, “why do I feel like I’m about to be handed Saturday detention?”

“Apologies,” Draco replied, his own mouth twitching slightly in response. “Occupational hazard.”

“Well,” Potter murmured, turning his glass in strong, tanned hands, “thanks. I think. Was that praise or a scolding, I’m hardly sure. I just worry every damn day that I’m screwing these kids up beyond repair. I never used to worry about that when Ginny was here.”

“I’ve taught a lot of students,” Draco informed him. “And more or less, they mostly come out alright in the end. If I was redeemable, with my parents being the cold, unfeeling sycophants they were, I’m certain your children will turn out fine.”

Potter looked up, surprised. “Is that really how you see your mother and father?”

The question startled Draco. “As insidious wastrels?” he bluntly elaborated. “Of course.”

Potter’s brow furrowed in that confused, concerned way of his. “But your mother. She turned her back on Voldemort and all for you. She was desperately worried, Malfoy, I saw it.”

A cold, steely sensation jerked at Draco’s diaphragm, leaving him breathless. He set his resolve against the impulse. “Does one selfless act make up for a lifetime of harm? She’s a murderer, Potter. You really think she made it through two wars in the Dark Lord’s inner circle with her hands clean? Vague maternal instincts rearing up at the eleventh hour don’t reverse all that.”

“I spoke out in her defence,” Potter said. 

“I know,” Draco said. He felt his hand tighten around his tumbler. His careful control was slipping, which only frustrated him further. He remembered seeing Potter on the stands, giving his testimony about the night Narcissa Malfoy had purportedly come to his rescue. “You should have saved your breath.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Potter pressed on. “Not everyone was willing to be forgiving.”

“Well, she got some clemency. Her sentencing was twenty years ago this December. She, unlike my father, is being released this year.”

Draco didn’t know why he was telling Potter all this. He’d been doing his best not to think of it at all. 

“Oh,” Potter considered, scraping his thumbnail across the stubble on his chin. “Are you going to see her?”

“I...I don’t know,” Draco admitted, feeling another jab of irritation like he used to back when they were in school. Decisions had always seemed to come so easily to Potter: The righteous path was never shrouded in doubt for The Boy Who Lived. “I suppose you think I should. It’s the noble thing to do.”

Potter only shrugged. “Not up to me, is it?” 

The answer surprised Draco; he’d almost been expecting a lecture. Then again, he supposed it likely that Potter had grappled with moral complexities in the intervening decades. He was right, of course, but for one reckless moment, Draco wanted Potter to make the decision for him. He wanted Potter’s insight and his innate goodness in place of his own selfishness and bitter wrath. 

“Dad?” Albus stood at the door. He scratched the ankle of one foot with the toes of his other, eying Draco nervously. “Did you tell him?”

“I did, yes,” Potter replied. 

“Right,” Albus nodded, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Professor. I really was just trying to help.”

“I know that,” Draco assured him. “I would like to talk to you more about your proposed solution sometime soon, however.”

Albus brightened. “Yeah, alright! I’ve got plenty of notes! I’ll get them for you!”

“Not tonight, Al,” Potter interjected. “It’s past your bedtime. Teeth, alright? And then bed.”

“Can Scorpius stay tomorrow?”

“It’s not a good idea, love," Potter said, his voice kind but firm. "None of his things are here. He’s going to want a change of clothes, and Professor Malfoy undoubtedly has things to prepare for the start of term.”

“But—”

“It’s not up for discussion,” Potter warned. “I’m sure Scorpius can come for another visit when I’ve had a chance to pick up some more Floo powder, even if just for a day.”

“Certainly,” Draco agreed. “There’s a few weeks left of summer and it’s no fun for him to wander the Manor all day while I work. We’ll sort something out.”

That seemed to placate the boy. Potter rose and mussed his son’s hair before kissing him atop the head. “Bed now though, Al. I mean it.”

“Fine. Night, Dad. Night, Professor.”

“Goodnight,” Draco echoed. The boy plodded off down the hall. 

“Sorry,” Potter said. “He’s persistent.”

“I know,” Draco replied. “First term, he attempted his Potent Posy Potion twelve times. He came after class for a fortnight, despite already having an acceptable grade.”

“Why on earth…” Potter wondered. “He doesn’t even like flowers, so far as I know.”

“I suspect it was more the accurate completion of the procedure than the results. He can be meticulous, when he gets something into his head.”

“And completely neglectful of things that don’t capture his attention,” Potter shook his head, bemused. “I can’t make heads or tails of his interests from one day to the next.”

Draco smiled. “Well, we all have our idiosyncrasies.”

“That we do,” Potter agreed. There was a not entirely comfortable pause. “What are yours, then?”

Draco contemplated the question, not knowing what Potter was after, exactly. Draco decided on a cautious response. “What you would expect, mostly. I can be fastidious when it comes to my storeroom. I like everything labeled and arranged just so.”

“Yeah, didn’t need you to tell me that one, mate,” Potter replied with a smile.

There was another awkward pause, as though neither of them knew what to say now that they weren’t discussing their children. 

“And yourself?” Draco inquired.

“Huh?” Potter said eloquently. 

“What is an idiosyncrasy of yours?” 

“Oh!” Potter looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected attention to be turned onto himself. “You mean like something you actually might not know?”

“Not a great deal to be gained out of your telling me something I do know,” Draco pointed out. 

“Yeah, guess you’re right, there. Er, oh, how’s this: I’m actually not a completely terrible cook, not like my kids would have you believe. I’ve just an aversion to it.” Potter had a bit of a grim look that Draco couldn’t quite explain. 

“Why’s that?” he asked. 

Potter seemed caught off guard, again, half unwilling to follow through on this line of questioning.

“I used to cook for my aunt and uncle,” Potter informed him with a forced nonchalance. “I assume you’ve read the news stories, hard to miss, tragic backstory and all that.”

Draco gave a nod, he’d tried to ignore the salacious headlines, but he’d gotten the gist over the years. 

“Yes,” he acknowledged. “Not a happy time.”

“No,” Potter agreed. “And here I am moping again. Sorry. My problem is that it’s only ever one branch of the Weasley family or another here for a visit. I’m not used to actual guests. Merlin’s teeth, I really am pants at this whole hostessing thing.” He gave Draco an abashed little half grin. 

“You really are,” Draco observed, not letting on that he found Potter’s social fumbling somehow charming. “Tell me something else, then. Something less morose.”

“Right,” Potter helplessly blew out a lungful of air, which made his fringe flutter over his forehead, exposing his scar. “I’m not sure I’m a terribly interesting bloke to be honest.”

Draco snorted at that. “Oh yes, that is what all the headlines say: ‘Harry Potter, dull as dishwater’.”

“I am and I’ll prove it,” Potter grinned in earnest, now. “Because here’s one: I’ve actually come to quite like paperwork. I hated it when I first started as an Auror, but once the kids came, I don’t quite know, I started to appreciate the order of it: everything in its rightful place for once.”

Draco pictured Potter leaning over a cluttered desk with family photos and stacks of parchment, the tip of his quill brushing his lip as he dotted his i’s. It was a pleasant image.

“You’re right,” Draco stated dryly. “Dishwater has infinite nuance and depth in comparison.”

Potter laughed heartily at that. Draco didn’t think the man was at all tipsy, but the Firewhisky was perhaps helping him unwind. 

“Your turn then,” Potter insisted. “What’s something else odd about you?”

Draco didn’t know why the question made him blush. Or maybe he did. It was almost certainly because he’d been immediately transported to the morning prior, standing on the faded rug in this very room: his throat burning, his adrenaline spiked, and his cock granite hard and aching. Before he could stop himself, his hand flew to his neck, pressing the pads of his fingers lightly into the bruise he’d hidden beneath a glamour for their day out. 

“What?” Potter asked dumbly. There was a pause while the Knut dropped. “Oh.”

Now they were both blushing. 

“Is it still there, then, where I marked you up?” Potter inquired. “Of course it is, I saw it this morning. You put a glamour over it? I can’t believe I didn’t notice. Or I can, rather, I’m so bloody distracted these days.”

“It is,” Draco responded. He let the enchantment drop. 

Potter inhaled sharply at the stark sight of the dark, violent marks on Draco's skin. “Shit,” he breathed. “I...fuck, Malfoy, I’m sorry.”

Draco didn’t reply, he only sipped his Firewhisky. 

“And you...liked that?” Potter’s words were nearly breathless, his gaze fixed on the ring of mottled flesh. 

A response caught in Draco’s throat, unexpectedly. He’d decided ages ago to not waste time being ashamed of his proclivities, and he’d not looked back. But picking up nameless men in clubs that catered specifically to his tastes was one thing; admitting his masochism to Harry bloody Potter was another. 

“Yes,” he said, finally, letting the Firewhisky make him bold. 

“Liked what, exactly?” Potter pushed. His voice was still uncertain, like he was asking even though he thought he shouldn’t. 

“Pain,” he responded, simply. “But that is no excuse for my behaviour the other day. I’m...susceptible to that particular combination of adrenaline and endorphins. It’s inextricably tied to my arousal, at least in contexts in which I feel a certain measure of security.”

Potter sputtered, the surprise causing him to look up, meeting Draco’s eyes. “Security!? I could have killed you!”

“You wouldn’t have. Not in front of your children.”

“Merlin,” Potter croaked. “That’s...a lot. It’s just a lot.”

“Again, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I regret that you saw me so untethered from restraint.”

“You were baiting me!” Potter accused. “In my study. You were trying to get me to hurt you again!”

“I was,” Draco confessed. “I had no right.”

“But, but,” Potter stuttered stupidly. “I’m _me_!”

“Meaning?”

“It wasn’t just the pain and the adrenaline or whatever. Maybe it was at first, but not later, not when it was just us. What did you want that from _me_ for? You barely tolerate me. If it wasn’t for everything you did today, I would have assumed you still hated me.”

“You can’t be serious,” Draco knew he was gaping like a damn codfish but Potter couldn’t truly be this thick, could he?

“You mean…” Potter licked his lips, the man was thrumming with nerves. “You’re..you…”

Merlin, this was positively painful. “I’m attracted to you, Potter, yes. And I know you’re magnificently straight, and I'm keenly aware that my behaviour towards you in the study was abhorrent for a number of reasons, and I assure you, it won’t be repeated.”

“What if I’m not?” Potter blurted out. He seemed both shocked and horrified at the very words flying out of his mouth, but also powerless to stop them. 

“What?” Draco demanded. 

“Oh hell, I don’t—I don’t know, alright? I don’t know what is happening here. Fuck,” Potter murmured, colour draining from his face. “I think I need some water.”

And with that, Harry Potter left the room. 

Draco rose, not to follow the other man, but to do _something_ with this mounting pressure constricting his chest. He walked to the mantle, hoping desperately that there would be some Floo powder after all. He wondered if he could get home on just the dregs. Instead, his eyes fell on Potter’s Auror portrait. It was old. Potter was perhaps twenty: handsome and youthful, and a fair bit scrawnier than he was now. He was smiling warmly from the frame, determined and excited for his future. Despite everything the boy in the photo had just survived, his light had not been diminished. It had taken the Weasley girl walking out on him to do that. And even still, Potter was all compassion and patience, refusing to say a word against the woman. It was ludicrous. Well, perhaps Potter couldn’t keep his own grudges, but that was alright. Draco could keep them for him. 

“Look,” Potter was behind him. Draco jumped, spinning in place. “Here’s how it is. Until two days ago it never crossed my mind that I might be into blokes, and I’m not saying I am for sure, but I can’t stop thinking about what it might be like to kiss you and I don’t fucking know what to do with that.”

Draco swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady and not belie the rush of anticipatory hope that burbled inside him. “You could always just try it and find out,” he offered.

He'd barely finished the sentence before Potter’s lips were crashing against his, fierce in their wild desperation. 

Draco rarely went in much for kissing. He’d let men beat him bloody far before he’d seek out the slide of their tongues against his. But with Potter it was different. He wanted this, exactly this, the crushing, brutal press of their mouths more than he’d ever wanted any whip on his back. 

There was no hesitation in the kiss: In an instant, Potter’s hand was grasping the back of Draco’s skull, steadying him for the heady onslaught. Potter’s lips were rough and sure, and then they were gone, leaving Draco gasping. It had been everything he’d craved: Potter’s mouth had been bullish and intent despite his professed misgivings. Draco could have sworn he’d tasted Potter's want, and now it was gone he felt suddenly bereft. 

“Fuck,” Potter whispered, dropping his forehead upon Draco’s shoulder. “Bloody hell, Malfoy, what are we doing?”

Draco’s hands came up automatically, cupping the back of Potter’s neck. 

“I’m fucking married,” Potter continued. “My kids are spinning out: Al’s erasing his own bloody memories, Lily’s only just stopped crying herself to sleep. I have a new baby for mercy’s sake. And I’m not gay, or at least I didn’t think I was, but I fucking want you, and Merlin’s ribs, Malfoy, I don’t know what to do, I honestly don’t know what to do.”

“Hush,” Draco murmured into Potter’s ear. Draco let himself toy with the ends of Potter’s hair at his nape. “You’ve not done anything wrong. And no one’s making any decisions right now. You’re alright, Potter. Kissing another man is hardly the end of the world.”

“Sorry,” Potter breathed, nuzzling closer. “I wasn’t trying to imply—it doesn’t matter to me who—oh, nevermind. It’s just unexpected, is all.”

Draco let his hands wander further, petting Potter’s mess of hair soothingly. 

“I know. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with how my damn libido reacted to seeing you again, either.”

That got a shaky chuckle out of Potter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to or anything.”

“You had sick on your T-shirt,” Draco reminded him dryly. “You clearly weren’t making an effort to impress me.”

Potter finally un-burrowed himself from Draco’s neck, a shaky smile on his face. “Point taken.”

They looked at each other for another long moment. Draco wondered if Potter would lose his nerve once he noticed how terribly close they were to something irreversible.

But Potter had always been brave.

Draco felt the other man shift nearer, pressing curious lips to a sensitive patch of bruises on the side of Draco's neck. His breath stuttered in response, corresponding with a sudden flare of need carving through him. Potter must have taken it as encouragement, for he traced a path upwards along the prominent muscle in Draco's throat and the hard line his jaw, until finally their mouths met again. This kiss was more careful and studious than the first, like Potter had originally failed to take everything in, and didn’t want to repeat such a mistake. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed anyone this...Merlin, almost _tenderly_. It felt so disconcerting and indulgent, so beyond the realm of the obligatory chat he'd usually endure before he got what he needed. Draco was used to his encounters serving as rote means to equally rote ends, and now here he was being savoured like some forbidden delicacy.

The baby started to cry. 

“Of fucking course,” Potter cursed, pulling away. 

“I’ll deal with it,” Draco heard himself saying. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been exhausted all day. Go to bed. I’ll manage.”

“You sure?”

“When will you learn that I’m always sure, Potter?” Draco responded, pressing a quick nip of a kiss to Potter’s bottom lip, just because he could. “Go.”

**_/// ///_ **

Twenty minutes later, Draco wandered into Potter’s bedroom. Remy was milk-drunk and passed out in his arms. Potter was stripped down to his pants and was pulling on another shabby T-shirt. He was perched on the side of the bed, still wearing his glasses. 

“I transfigured another fork for you,” he offered, nodding to the bathroom off the master bedroom. “Here, I’ll put Remy down.”

Draco handed off the baby and then went to brush his teeth and wash his face in the little en suite still littered with Ginevra Weasley’s things. 

When he came out, Potter stood up from where he was leaning over Remy’s bassinet. His face fell. “Shit,” he said. “Fuck, I forgot to make up a spare room.”

“I’m sure I can sort it,” Draco assured him. 

“Stay,” the word burst out of Potter’s mouth. Draco couldn’t say for sure who it surprised more. “I mean. Will you? Not to do anything, not like that, just...stay.”

Draco considered the proposition. He rarely kissed and he certainly never spent the night. But Potter looked so miserable, so anguished and disconsolate in his uncertainty, and Draco could fix that, with his very presence he could fix that. What’s more, he wanted to. 

“Yes, alright,” he said.

Potter looked equal parts tormented and soothed. 

“You...you will?” Potter’s voice was strained and he was tugging on the back of his neck again.

“If you wish.”

“I...yeah, I do,” Potter murmured, not looking at him. “Thanks.” Potter took off his glasses, placing them on the little table beside him, then tucked himself under the covers, his back to Draco. 

Draco locked the bedroom door. The last thing he needed was the Potter brood finding him in here. He removed his socks and shoes, slipping the former into the latter. He took off his shirt and trousers, hanging them in the vacant side of the Potter’s closet. He rested his wand on the bedside table—Potter’s wife’s bedside table. He tried not to think about that bit. Wearing only his vest and his pants, he slid beneath the quilt. 

Potter’s breaths came shaky and irregular, his body rigid in his uncertainty. Draco didn’t know what the other man wanted.

“I can go—” he hazarded. 

“Please don’t,” Potter hissed, voice brimming with a tense desperation. “I want you here. I just...I don’t ruddy well know what I’m doing, do I?”

Draco ended the pretense of keeping his distance, instead closing the gap between their bodies and pressing his chest against Potter’s back. The man shuddered as Draco kissed his neck and wrapped a steady arm around his middle. A moment later, Potter eased tentatively backwards into the embrace. Gingerly, Potter let his own arm rest atop Draco’s own. Then, in a gesture which seemed to require a desperate surge of courage, Potter impetuously grasped Draco’s hand.

“Alright there, Potter?” Draco asked, amused. He squeezed the fingers interlacing with his.

“Shut up,” Potter muttered. They lay there silently, their breaths coming in tandem. 

Draco chuckled, taking in the cedar scent of Potter’s soap. He thought about Potter as a boy, so ready to jump into action, so easily baited. Fatherhood had mellowed the man some, and grief seemed to have edged out the majority of his anger. Draco wondered now if Potter had ever been as insufferably proud as Draco had believed him to be when they were at Hogwarts together. Such pride certainly wasn’t detectable now. Despite Potter’s own misgivings, he was clearly a competent father. Albus and Lily obviously adored him and so did James, underneath the layers of sullen attitude. Potter might seem scattered, but Draco could hardly blame him. When the situation with Astoria had devolved as it did, Draco had all but locked Scorpius away in the Manor and flung himself into finding a cure, to the neglect of everything, including his son.

“Malfoy,” Potter whispered, interrupting Draco’s thoughts.

“Mm?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I don’t know. Like...caring for me.” Potter’s voice was so low that Draco barely caught the words.

It was a good question, and one Draco didn’t have a ready answer for, save for Potter being so helplessly lost and unwittingly gorgeous. Draco kissed the man’s neck again. He liked the warmth of the skin beneath his touch.

“Because it was clear someone needed to,” he said, “and I never trust others to properly handle the most crucial of tasks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their patience and for the incredibly kind and sincere comments. I appreciate you an unbelievable amount. 
> 
> And an extra big thank you to my glorious beta, MimbelWimbel for her edits and attention. All remaining mistakes are my own! (Probably because I can't resist making last minute additions!).


	15. Fifteen - Harry

Harry awoke to the soft sounds of someone moving about the room. He knew it had to be Malfoy. Harry’s chest seized painfully at that. They’d...Merlin. What had he been thinking? He cringed inwardly. Thinking had clearly not factored into any of his decisions from the Firewhisky onwards. He’d kissed Draco Malfoy, and what’s more, Malfoy had let him, not just let him, had actively _participated_ in all the kissing. And then Harry had thrown the scraps of his dignity to the wind and begged Malfoy to stay the night. In Harry’s bed. No, in Harry and Ginny’s bed. Staying the night was the least of it, Harry had to admit to himself, because in reality, Malfoy had _held_ him the whole night long, save the few instances Remy had fussed them both awake. Malfoy had dealt with that, too, squeezing Harry’s shoulder and instructing him to get some rest for once. Harry had accepted both the comfort and the help, sliding back into sleep each time, stirring momentarily when the warmth of Malfoy’s body reappeared along the length of his back. 

Harry wondered if he should just pretend he was sleeping until Malfoy left the room. Maybe he’d had a reason for not rousing Harry, like not at all wanting to acknowledge the past twelve hours. But no, Harry was not a child, he should own up to his decisions—his astronomically poor judgment—and deal with the consequences. He sat up, searched for his glasses and put them on, then swept off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

Malfoy was fastening the buttons on his shirt sleeve. The man was all lean lines and cut angles and even in yesterday’s clothes he appeared neatly pressed and striking. Because apparently Harry found men striking now. 

Harry very much wanted to return to the oblivion of sleep. 

Malfoy looked up, his eyes meeting Harry’s. 

“Morning, Potter,” he said. His tone gave nothing away. Of course it didn’t. Blast the inscrutable arsehole. Except Harry now knew Malfoy wasn’t an arsehole. He’d actually been incredibly decent, all things considered. Kind, even—Merlin, now there was a thought. 

“Yeah,” Harry grunted.

One silver-blond eyebrow quirked upwards. 

“I mean, er, morning,” Harry corrected, wincing at his own abysmal manners—not that he really knew the proper manners in this scenario. Malfoy seemed to have a great deal more experience in the sleeping-with-men arena. Until the encounter in his study, Harry hadn’t known the other man was attracted to blokes, but he supposed he’d made assumptions to the contrary based on the fact there was, at one time, a Mrs. Malfoy. That the man was not strictly straight hadn’t made it into any of the society gossip Harry was aware of, not that he kept up with such things, as a general rule. Being surprised was not the same as being put off, of course. Harry didn’t much care who people chose to shag, really, so long as the involved parties were all on board, so he was hardly fussed about Malfoy’s preferences. He was, however, still reeling a bit at his own. 

“Just how quickly are you unraveling?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry jumped at the words. “What?” he demanded. The word came out much more harshly than he had intended.

“What level of damage control is required for your current crisis of self or what have you?” Malfoy clarified. “Would you like me to tell you it’s perfectly normal for blokes to need a bit of comfort in stressful times? That what we did doesn’t have to mean anything? That it was simply a massive error in judgment and we can pretend it never happened?” Malfoy’s tone was mocking in its sarcasm, a challenge. 

Malfoy’s implications irritated Harry. Until recently, he might have been the very picture of a typical family man, but that didn’t mean he was closed-minded. It was 2018, for goodness’ sakes. Things were different now than when they were children, when ‘pouf’ had been bandied about like the worst of all possible insults. Truly, though: He’d attended the wedding of Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell the month such unions had been legalised in the British wizarding community, and that had been nearly twelve years ago now. He’d spoken at fundraising events for LGBT rights at Hermione’s behest without a thought. Discrimination was what Voldemort had been on about, and Harry had no wish to perpetrate that nonsense. What’s more, Percy Weasley had been with his partner Ralph for nearly five years now, and Harry got on with Ralph better than he ever had with Percy. Harry wasn’t some backwoods bigot and he resented that Malfoy thought he was.

“None of the above,” he said, pursing his lips coldly. “I went into everything with my eyes wide open, thanks.”

Malfoy’s features softened. “Apologies,” he murmured. “I should have known you’d be the decent type. I expect I’ve had too many experiences to the contrary. Those who want it in the moment, and are steeped in self-disgust and revulsion after the fact. No doubt I was steeling myself for that eventuality.”

“Perhaps you ought to find better ways of meeting blokes,” Harry suggested gruffly. Not, he realised, that _that_ idea appealed to him whatsoever. 

Malfoy stepped closer, until he was standing over Harry. Looking up, Harry met Malfoy’s gaze. Those grey eyes seemed to be scouring his expression, though Harry couldn’t think for what. He felt his neck redden and he lowered his head, just to get a moment’s reprieve from the intense scrutiny.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said softly. “I’ve injured your feelings in an effort to protect my own.”

Harry swallowed and Malfoy’s hand extended suddenly, hovering hesitantly in the air besides Harry’s cheek. Harry thought it was the first time since they were boys that he’d seen Malfoy demonstrate even a moment’s uncertainty. The period of indecision belied the man’s typical sharp competence. Harry found it oddly reassuring to discover a crack in the veneer. 

Harry turned his face, pressing it against Malfoy’s outstretched palm. Harry heard Malfoy’s breath hitch at the contact and he found he liked catching the other man off guard. With the pad of his thumb, Malfoy traced a path along the ridge of Harry’s cheekbone, before easing downwards and doing the same to Harry’s bottom lip. Harry felt his chin being lifted slightly, until he had no choice but to meet Malfoy’s solemn, grey eyes once more.

Malfoy leaned in and kissed Harry then, first just above his brow and then on the corner of his mouth. 

“No regrets, then?” Malfoy murmured. 

“No,” Harry stated firmly, realising it to be very much the truth. The storm of anxiety and want and doubt brewing within him had nothing to do with regret.

“Good,” Malfoy’s hand dropped and he straightened, his tone shifting to one of businesslike efficiency. “I ought to take Scorpius home.”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry agreed. “If you walk north three blocks to Maybury Avenue, you’ll reach the end of the wards and should Apparate out without difficulties. I can show you, if it’s easier.”

“No, I’m sure we’ll manage, but thank you.” 

Malfoy took his wand from the bedside table and turned towards the door. 

“Wait,” Harry heard himself say, rising. Malfoy turned to him, expectantly. “Er. I might drop the kids with Molly Weasley for a few days. I’ve, well, I’ve not been the best at keeping up with the family and I know she wants to see them. “We could, ah, get together. To talk. If you wanted. If you could get child care for Scorpius, of course. I know it can be easier said than done.”

“His aunt Daphne should be returning home from her holidays any day now. I could probably arrange for her to look after him for an evening.”

“You could?” Harry hated how eager he sounded. Malfoy only nodded. “Alright,” Harry continued, “so I’ll see you sometime soon then, I guess?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Malfoy agreed. And with that, he stepped out of the bedroom door and was gone. 

_**/// ///** _

The morning was the typical chaos of caring for the baby and ensuring that Lily and Al got some breakfast. After that, Al returned to his room to sulk, presumably in hopes that his bad mood would return Scorpius to Eiderdown End more quickly. Harry set about dealing with the dishes and makin a grocery list.

A dark shape blocked the morning light from the kitchen window, and Harry looked out to see Lily flying in the garden, her red hair streaming behind her as she zipped between the practice hoops. Her lips were moving, and Harry knew she was broadcasting her own stats and successes as she went. Not lacking in confidence, his girl. 

Jamie didn’t appear until half ten, but Harry didn’t give him any grief for it.

“Morning, love,” Harry said in greeting. “I made Al and Lily some eggs earlier. I can wash out the pan and make you some, too, if you like?”

“S’alright,” Jamie replied, yawning. “Think I’ll just have toast.”

“Right-o,” Harry nodded and returned to his task of sorting out the various cleaning potions and tonics below the kitchen sink. It was his mission for the day to tackle the dual nightmares that were the hall bathroom and the en suite. If he was feeling particularly brave, he might chance Jamie’s bathroom in the basement, as well. 

“But, er, thanks, Dad. You know, for offering.” 

Jamie’s mumbled words caught Harry so off guard that he smacked his head on the top of the cupboard. But even that throbbing pain couldn’t take away from the buoyant hope bobbing about in his chest. 

_**/// ///** _

It wasn’t until the afternoon, all three bathrooms as near as sparkling as he could make them, that Harry went into the drawing room. He sat Remy at a play bench Ron and Hermione had sent as a gift. It was wooden with lots of brightly painted dials and buttons and switches. Sitting was rather a new skill for the baby, and Remy wobbled precariously while he reached forward. Something crackled and Harry turned to see Teddy appear in the fireplace, the ridiculous moustache gone, and his long hair pulled back. 

“Teddy!” Harry exclaimed. He’d nearly forgotten his godson was due back today, what with everything that had happened. 

“‘Lo, Harry!” The young man looked tired but happy. 

“Nice visit?”

“Of course. They’re all missing your lot, though.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I was thinking of taking Remy and going to give Molly a visit, and an apology, I expect. Hate to spring the kids on you when you’ve just gotten home, but—”

Teddy waved him off. “Lily and Al never need much minding, they keep themselves busy. Will give me a chance to make some progress on this book Victoire’s lent me, anyways.” He patted the pocket of his cardigan, where a paperback poked out. 

“You’re a treasure,” Harry said. “They’ve already had lunch, I’m sure I won’t be more than a couple of hours.”

“Take your time,” Teddy replied, grinning. “You get some sleep for once?”

“Hm?” Harry said, trying to remember where he’d put the baby change bag this time. 

“You just look more well-rested than usual.”

Harry doubted one night could make up for the sleep debt he’d been accruing over the four months of Remy’s life, but he did feel rather energetic today. He was invigorated by the fact that he was looking forward to something for the first time since Ginny had left. The feeling, Harry realised in horror, was akin to giddiness. Draco Malfoy had made him _giddy_. Harry winced. He certainly didn’t know what to do with _that_. “Ah, yeah,” he agreed without conviction. “Remy had a good night.”

“That’s excellent!” Teddy said. He stretched and headed towards the garden. 

Harry spotted the bag on the other side of the sofa, and slung it over one shoulder. He scooped up Remy, who made an unhappy noise at being taken away from his toy. Harry stepped towards the fireplace, only to remember it was the lack of Floo powder that had caused his current quagmire in the first place. It was then that he noticed his coin pouch on the mantle, beside where the Floo powder was normally housed. He knew he’d not put it there, in fact, he’d not seen the bag at all since he—since he gave it to Malfoy. 

Understanding clicked into place, Malfoy must have forgotten about it until he went to depart this morning. Harry stepped closer to pick it up. It was then that he realised the Floo powder had also been replenished. Tucked beneath the small sack was a folded bit of parchment. _Potter_ was written atop it in meticulous cursive. Harry pocketed the coins and snatched up the paper, unfolding it furtively. 

_Potter,_

_I’ve taken the liberty of refilling your Floo powder from my own stores. I hope you don’t mind my popping back to do so, but I was starting to doubt you would ever get to it on your own. Thank you for the hospitality you have shown Scorpius and myself. It will not be soon forgotten._

_\- DM_

Harry didn’t know what else he had expected. He certainly couldn’t say why such basic words and the subtle, chiding jab felt sodden with unshed meaning. All he knew was that Malfoy’s continual thoughtfulness, the elegant flow of his script when he wrote Harry’s surname, and even the refilling of the damn Floo powder, all these things were heavy with a significance Harry wasn’t ready to name.

**_/// ///_ **

Harry found Molly Weasley in the kitchen kneading dough and humming along to the wireless. 

“Hullo, Molly,” he said. 

The woman jumped and spun round, her face going from shock to delight as she registered Harry and Remy’s appearance. 

“Oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, rushing at him, and wrapping her flour-dusted arms around him and Remy. She pulled back, her round face bright with affection. She squeezed his arms. "It's so very good to see you, love," she told him.

Harry kissed her cheek, incredibly relieved at the warm reception. Perhaps he'd been expecting the opposite more than he'd realised.

“Oh, what have I done,” Molly admonished herself, grabbing a tea towel to dust the flour off of Harry’s T-shirt. She washed her hands and reached for Remy. Harry gladly handed him over. “And how’s my littlest grandson,” she cooed. “Doubled in size since I’ve seen you last! Such a strong lad!” She looked up, misty-eyed. Guilt sliced through Harry, visceral in its intensity. No matter what Harry had done to muck things up, Molly Weasley deserved to see her grandchildren. “Come on, then, Harry, dear,” Molly said, setting the kettle to boil with a flash of her wand. “We’ll have a cuppa and a chat, how’s that?”

**_/// ///_ **

Harry had not felt like a guest in The Burrow since he was a teenager, but he felt very much like one now, even as he placed the tea pot, cups and saucers down upon the broad, crocheted doily that covered the coffee table. He'd been welcome here because of Ron, and then later because of Ginny. Being here without either of them felt jarringly atypical. 

If Molly was feeling the same, she didn't let on, just grinned happily at him as she eased herself onto overstuffed sofa across from Harry. 

“Hips aren’t what they used to be!” she laughed, but Harry could only offer a shaky smile in return, as he tried not to wince. He hated to acknowledge her mortality. She’d become markedly more frail in the months since Arthur had passed. Harry could hardly blame her, it had not been an easy time for any of them. It had all been so sudden: Arthur's heart had given out one day while faffing about in the garage, and Molly had found him there hours later when she’d gone to fetch him for dinner. 

Ginny had only discovered she was pregnant weeks earlier, and she never had the opportunity to tell Arthur the news. Harry had wondered if the death of her father had influenced Ginny’s decision—and how could it not. She’d insisted on Arthur for Remy’s second name. Harry would have had that be the baby’s first name, but Ginny had resisted that notion. “I don’t need a daily reminder,” she’d said. 

“Well, love, how are you holding up?” Molly said, searching Harry’s expression. Her warmth ate at Harry. He'd feel any anger or resentment leveled at him would be well-deserved, if not for driving Ginny out, then for at least for subsequently hiding out from the rest of the family. 

“Oh,” he considered, “we’re doing alright. You know how it is.”

Molly shook her head. “Not a day goes by that my heart doesn’t break for you and those children a little more.”

“Please don’t worry yourself,” Harry urged. “We’re making do. You know how kids are. I did want to apologise, though, for not reaching out. It wasn’t fair to you and it wasn’t fair to the children.”

“What wasn’t fair,” Molly replied emphatically, “was my selfish, spoiled daughter up and sneaking out on her family in the middle of the night like a treacherous deserter! I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive her for what she’s done to my grandchildren.”

The flayed edge of Molly’s rage was palpable and caught Harry off guard. He’d been so busy stewing about his own failings, he’d assumed the rest of the Weasley family would be doing the same. 

“Molly,” he coaxed, “we’re alright. We’re going to be alright. And Ginny, well, I don't know the full story, but she must have been in a bad way to have taken such drastic action. I can't know what's going on with her."

“‘What’s going on with her,’ pah! You and Hermione are both the same, and I won’t hear it. I don’t care if Ginny’s suddenly decided she needs to find herself, or whatever excuse she’s using to justify her betrayal. She could be leading an aid effort in the Congo or ensuring intergalactic peace and it wouldn’t change my mind about her a fig. You don’t walk out on your family without a word. You don’t abandon your children.”

Harry swallowed. “Have you seen her?”

Molly sighed, reaching out to pour the tea with trembling hands. Harry ached to take over, but he knew his efforts would be rebuffed. 

“I’ve not seen her, no,” Molly answered, her voice reedy and fraught. “I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m too angry, I think. Maybe once I’ve seen the children and I know they are getting by, I’ll reconsider things, but for now, I can’t, Harry, I simply can’t.” 

“They kids are fine,” Harry consoled his mother-in-law. “They really are. Sad, of course, but they’re resilient and just as lively as ever.”

Molly sniffed and looked away. Harry didn’t think there would be much use in pursuing this path. Molly was obviously not ready to hear anyone coming to her daughter’s defense. He doubted anything he could say would dissuade her from that, especially when he had no evidence of Ginny’s good intent to offer. 

“The kids miss you,” he told her. “I know you usually get your time with them in the summer. I wasn’t sure what your plans might be, or if you still wanted them to come for a bit of a visit. I won’t shackle you with a baby, though, so I'll keep Remy at home—”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Molly insisted. “I want them here. All of them, Teddy too. He’s not getting out of seeing his old Granny. And your timing is excellent, really. Percy and Ralph will be here the day after next with their girls. You know how Lily idolises Molly and Lucy, and how they adore her right back. No, it will be a lovely, bustling full house, just how I like it. And what’s more, Harry dear, I expect you need a break: some time to get your ducks in a row. Of course you’re welcome here, too, if you like, but I feel like a bit of solitude might do you good.”

“A break would be a great help, yeah,” Harry admitted. “I’m thinking I might have to look for more work, and the bills are stacking up simply because I’ve not addressed them. A few days to myself would be a gift, Molly, truly.” He felt another raucous smack of guilt. He wanted to take care of things, yes, but he also wanted time to see Malfoy. Harry felt his wedding ring suddenly heavy on his finger. He’d not even thought to take it off. He’d been trying to convince himself that the separation was only temporary, at least until he’d seen his account statement at Gringotts. Now, he didn’t know what was the best path. He wanted Ginny to be in their children’s life, of course he did, but whether she’d still have a place in his, well, he no longer could say with any certainty. 

The idea of Molly discovering Harry had already had someone new in his bed, that it was Malfoy of all people, and not even three months after Gin had walked out, well—Harry might lose the family’s good regard forever if they learned about that. Even still, he knew the threat of that wouldn’t stop him from seeing the other man again. 

“Consider it done,” Molly beamed. “You can bring them all by tomorrow. I’ll be sure to make some pot pies for Jamie, I know they’re his favourite.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your super kind comments, it feels so wonderful to have folks be earnestly engaged with the story, I feel so lucky!
> 
> Especially thanks to my eagle-eyed beta, MimbelWimbel for lending me her talents!


	16. Sixteen - Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: some vague references to sex/sexuality/kink (masochism), nothing explicit.**

Pansy Parkinson’s Floo led directly into her lavish bedroom. Draco stood on the royal blue Persian carpet in front of the fireplace and checked his pocket watch. It was half two in the afternoon. 

After a couple of days at his work bench, trying to keep his mind from drifting to thoughts of Harry bloody Potter for at least five minutes together, Draco had given up. For the first time in a very long while, he needed a confidante. The choice was easy: Pansy was the only friend he had. 

Except, perhaps, for Potter. 

Scorpius had promised up and down not to leave the Manor and Draco had set every ward of protection at his disposal. Scorpius had kept from rolling his eyes, but only just. “I’m twelve now, Dad,” he’d proclaimed. “I can spend an hour on my own. Besides, James lent me the first in the series of a graphic novel he’s into, and I’ve been meaning to read it.”

And so, Draco was here, listening to Pansy’s luxuriating snores. 

“Parkinson!” he barked. “Wake up!”

Pansy startled awake under her oversized duvet and dug herself out of a veritable mountain of throw pillows. The latter spilled off the bed, and Pansy wrested herself out of her vibrant silk sleep mask. 

She blinked twice at Draco. Then she grinned. “Draco, darling!” she greeted him. “The only man welcomed into my bed chambers during daylight hours! How are you? Actually, don’t answer that, I need a wee.”

The woman was wearing nothing but a scarlet chemise that clung to her abundant curves.

“Don’t mind me,” Draco drawled, when Pansy made no effort to cover her scant clothing. 

“Do you have any idea how many men would pay to spend their mornings like this?” she asked, shaking out her voluminous curls and strutting across the large room to her en suite. 

“It’s not the morning,” Draco pointed out. 

Pansy didn’t close the door, because she’d chucked out all sense of decency with the divorce. Draco was very nearly used to it, but he still flinched at the telltale sound of water on water. 

“That’s not the point, and you know it,” Pansy sighed, finishing up. She washed her hands and then her face with a mauve sort of ointment that bubbled and popped as she worked it into a lather. She didn’t rush her beauty rituals; it was clear that Draco was at her pleasure. 

Finally, she returned to the main room, posing for a moment in front of a full length mirror. “Merlin’s teeth, I am a divine creature!” she proclaimed. Pansy pulled an exorbitant aubergine housecoat off a hook and swirled it around herself, motioning Draco towards the armchair that sat beside an ornate little coffee table. 

“I’ll ring for tea,” Pansy announced, taking a tiny silver bell off her bedside table and giving it a jingle. Then, she flounced her way over to Draco, and enshrined herself upon the chaise opposite. “Not that I’m not terribly pleased to see you, my dear,” she began, quirking her head to one side like a painted peacock, “but whatever are you doing here?”

Before Draco could find the words to reply, a knock was heard at the bedroom door, which was then opened to reveal a house elf in a satin gown and wearing a towering powdered wig. The thing had a soft turquoise colour to it, and cast a sickly pall onto the elf’s mottled skin. 

“You called?” asked the house elf, whom Draco knew to be called Floriandra.

“Tea, your Grace, if you have a moment?” Pansy asked.

“But of course,” Floriandra said with a curtsy. Her gown rustled with the movement, and then she was gone. 

Draco shook his head at the bizarre exchange. He was well aware that things had changed since the Emancipation Agreement that Granger-Weasley had pushed through during her time sitting on the post-war Emergency Council, but Pansy and Floriandra's dichotomy still felt a bit surreal. 

“Welcome to modernity, Draco, really,” Pansy scolded. “If Floriandra wants to spend her not insignificant wages on ball gowns and wigs and be referred to by a title, who am I to argue? I make a point of never standing in the way of a fellow female living her most authentic life. Besides, she’s been with me since childhood. I adore her. And she has an endless capacity for discussing my evening attire, unlike some of my friends.” She gave Draco a pointed look. “And she knows at any moment she could pack it in and sit by the fire with her feet up into perpetuity and I wouldn’t resent her an ounce.”

“Certainly you’d not turn to making your own tea?” Draco challenged. 

Pansy laughed her tinkling, scandalised laugh. “Hardly! But that is what servants are for. People do consider it a bit gauche to employ house elves these days, so I suspect if Flori decides to retire, I’ll hire a young butler—one who is ruggedly handsome and ideally infatuated with me—to wait on me, and on her.”

“Well, glad you’ve got your future well in hand,” Draco permitted. 

“Of course I do,” Pansy assured him. “Now, usually I have to do a great deal of wheedling and imploring to earn the pleasure of your company, so something must be going on. Something delicious, I hope. Tell Auntie Pansy all about it.”

Draco snorted. “Only if you promise never to refer to yourself as that again.”

“Never,” Pansy exclaimed. “I don’t let men dictate my vocabulary.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m wild and untamed,” Pansy corrected, her dark eyes sparkling. “Now, tell me! Was Paulo everything you were hoping and more? Are you leaving the continent to wed?”

For a moment, Draco didn’t know to whom she was referring. Then her teasing about his adventures in Brazil surfaced. Merlin, his time in the rainforest felt like a lifetime ago. He’d not thought of Rudá since his return. 

“Brazil was fine,” Draco informed his friend. “It’s since I’ve been home that things have become...more complicated.”

“I live for complicated,” Pansy promised. The door opened and Floriandra entered pushing a silver tea caddy. She set a tray with the teapot, cups and saucers on the low coffee table between Draco and Pansy. 

“Sublime,” Pansy remarked, following a loud inhalation. “Thank you, your Grace.”

Floriandra nodded her approval, the great powdered wig wobbling precariously. She turned and pushed the caddy out into the hall. Draco listened for the snick of the closing door. 

“Well?” Pansy demanded, flinging an arm behind her where she lay on the chaise, her dressing gown billowing around her like some sort of pre-Raphaelite heroine. 

Now that Draco had a chance to divulge his feelings, he realised he had no idea what he wanted to say. He pursed his lips, looking out the window which looked onto Pansy’s exquisitely manicured garden. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. He was impatient with himself and his own inability to be articulate in the moment. 

Pansy sat up, her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. Her expression was keen and curious. “Something’s happened,” she accused. 

Draco forced himself to meet her eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. 

“‘Yes,’ he says. Merlin, Draco, I’ll pummel it out of you, don’t think I won’t!”

Draco grinned at that. He had fond memories of wrestling with Pansy on the grounds surrounding the Manor, before they’d grown old enough for the pronouncement that it wasn’t proper for boys and girls to do such things together.

“Well?” Pansy prompted. “What is it?”

“I...I spent the night. With someone."

“You mean, like, post-coitus? Like after you two had your fun you passed out and now you’re feeling vulnerable about it?”

Draco grimaced. “You’ve been talking to your mind healer.”

“Oh, at least twice weekly,” Pansy affirmed. “But don’t change the subject.”

“No,” Draco told her. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t like that!” Pansy echoed, clearly shocked. “But that’s all you do. You pick up strangers at the clubs and let them have their merry way with you. You've not suddenly begun dating for the first time in living memory?”

Draco shook his head.

“So what then?” Pansy demanded. 

Draco didn’t say anything. He replayed the last conversation he’d had with Pansy, trying to determine if there was any vague allusion he could make to Potter without her simply connecting the dots. She knew Potter was the father of one of Scorpius’ mates. She knew Potter had been doing poorly, and she knew Draco had seen the man recently. He poured them both some tea, still not knowing how to answer the question still suspended between them. 

“Honestly, Draco," Pansy admonished. "Did you come here for advice or did you come here to sit in silence and agonise?”

“It was Potter.” The words flew from Draco’s mouth quite without his permission. 

Pansy stared at him, her full lips parting. She licked them. “Come again?” she asked carefully. 

“That's who I spent the night with. Potter.”

“You’re going to have to specify what exactly that means,” Pansy said slowly. 

“Pans, I...Merlin, I don’t know. We spent the day together. We took the children shopping for school supplies. Scorpius had one of his episodes and I put him to sleep and the cot at Potter’s was still set up from when he was visiting, so it made sense to just put him down there. And there was no Floo powder and…”

“All I’m hearing are a lot of suspect excuses, and not a lot of explanations.”

“I don’t know!” Draco burst out, his fingers gripping the lip of the arms of the chair.

“My, you are riled up.”

“Piss off.”

“So. You’ve seduced Harry Potter. Bold choice. To what end, exactly?”

“I–I...” Draco sputtered, “I’ve not seduced anyone!”

“Then what _have_ you done?” Pansy asked. She looked positively gleeful, relishing in either the news or Draco’s discomfort, he couldn’t say. 

“We just,” whatever Draco was hoping to say died on his tongue. He sighed, exasperated with the rush of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him. “We got on.”

Pansy lifted a dark, shapely brow. “You got on.”

“Leave off, would you? Repeating everything I say is hardly helpful.”

“Sorry,” Pansy said, sincerely enough. “I’m just having a bit of trouble picturing you and Potter _getting on_.”

“Yes. Well. We did.”

“I’m mean, he’s certainly fit.”

Draco swallowed, thoughts pulled towards Potter’s broad shoulders, the solidity of his body against Draco’s. “Yeah,” he muttered gruffly.

“I’m not trying to facetious,” Pansy pressed, “but I really don’t see how you managed to end up in his bed if there was no fucking to be had. You did at least snog, I assume?”

“Snog?” Draco grimaced. “Are we sixteen again, and I simply missed it?”

“Fat lot of snogging you did at sixteen. Too busy trying to murder our Headmaster and swimming in your own personal angst.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m not. Besides, I would have languished in jealousy if you had been snogging anyone. You really are the only man I’ve ever loved. Though _why_ I loved you when you were such a disagreeable, pompous little shit, I’ll never know.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” Draco remarked dryly.

“You can make it up to me by spilling all the details of your intimate encounter with Harry Potter! Who I didn’t know was into blokes, by the way, is this a new development?”

“I believe so, yes,” Draco divulged. “He seemed surprised by it, at any rate.”

“I suppose that checks out. You and him always did have a little _je ne sais quoi._ ”

“What?”

“Oh, you know. It was always very _intense_ between you. Or is it not like that any more?”

“I suspect it was intense between us, as you say, because I was a brainwashed little bigot and a bully. I was hideously jealous that Potter was some sort of chosen one, when I wasn't. I should hope that after twenty years I’ve grown out of being an insecure cretin, but thanks for that particular vote of confidence.”

Pansy snorted. “No one could fault your confidence presently.”

“There is no sense in false modesty.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Draco, honestly. So. You and Potter got on. You snogged. And then you, what, cuddled?”

Draco coloured. 

“Merlin!” Pansy shrieked, loudly enough to make their tea cups rattle on their saucers. Draco winced. 

“Shut up,” he murmured. 

“I certainly will not. Cuddling! I wasn't aware you knew how. This is the gossip of the decade, Draco, you’ve no idea.”

“Pansy, you _can’t_ –”

Pansy waved an impatient hand, “I won’t, I won’t. Though I will begrudge you for stealing my fun.”

“Yes. Well.” Draco sipped his tea. He wasn’t convinced telling her had made him feel any better, and it certainly hadn’t taken his mind off Potter. 

Pansy’s expression softened. “Are you alright?”

Draco stared at his tea. The delicate china was plain white, save the for the gilded edge. It felt breakable in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’m...in a bit over my head. Like you said: I spent my teenage years beholden to a terrorist, and much of my adult life attempting to regain my reputation. My relationship with Astoria was imperative to that; I had no intention of doing that image any damage. My...other needs were met via different channels, as you’re well aware. I thought it was enough for me. I never wanted anything more.”

“But now you do?”

“I don’t know,” Draco repeated honestly. “I’m used to my quiet life with Scorpius, with my work, and my research. I’m quite content in that.”

“But?”

Draco sighed. Damn the woman and all her intuition too often hidden by her outrageous persona. “But it, Merlin, with Potter it is just _easy_. Spending time there, being with him. It just...fit. Like I could slide into his life without a mote of upset to any of us."

"You do realise you've gone from one night of cuddling to imagining a future with the man," Pansy noted. "You don't think that's a bit much?"

"It's not like that," Draco protested. "Not exactly. It was just comfortable. I mean it was awkward, too, a bit, but nothing I couldn't contain. It is just that everything has been unraveling for him and so quickly; he's positively inept. I do him the simplest of favours and he acts as though I've provided an emergency lifesaving procedure."

"Hm," Pansy contemplated Draco’s attempt at an explanation. "You aren’t usually the obliging type. What's different with him?"

"It's amusing. He gets all jittery and unintelligible, like he can't parse my motives. But he's relieved, too, and grateful. Perhaps I do just enjoy provoking him, or maybe it is nice to have some company for once. I think Scorpius enjoys being there, too. You should have seen him with the Potter boys: He was so exuberant and, I don’t know, joyful, I suppose. Have I done wrong by him, do you think? He had a few mates in primary school, but nothing compared to how close he is with Albus. I’m afraid I’ve let my anti-social tendencies deprive him somehow. I’d never thought he was lonely, but I suspect he might not have known it himself.”

“So far as children go, Scoripus is a darling, really, Draco,” Pansy assured him. “You’ve nothing to worry about on that front: He’s a lovely child, and he knows you adore him. Which is quite a feat, considering the cruelty disguised as parenting that you witnessed as a child. Even if Scorpius has been lonely, that doesn’t mean you’ve damaged him. It also doesn’t mean you have to jump into playing house with Potter, not that I’m not desperate to see that unfold.”

“Yeah,” Draco breathed. “I’m being foolish. I know that. And the man’s in a bad place. It could have nothing to do with me. Any port in a storm and all that.”

“Rebound is definitely a real phenomenon. And he loved Ginny Weasley for a long time.”

Draco didn’t like the flicker of something that made its presence known in his chest. It felt too akin to jealousy. 

“He might still,” he admitted. Lying to himself would hardly help matters. 

“Probably,” Pansy agreed. “Love’s like that. Or so I’ve heard.”

Draco finished his tea, setting the saucer and cup back upon the tray. “Pans…”

“Mm?”

“When last we spoke, you said, oh, I don’t remember exactly, some bollocks about my not being alone.”

“My word, don’t tell me I’ve finally managed to say something that stuck?” Pansy beamed. 

“You haven’t,” Draco lied. 

“Oh?”

“What made you say that? Was it solely to irritate me?”

“No,” Pansy said plainly. “I meant it. Just because you’re functional alone doesn’t mean you’re flourishing.” Draco was sure it was another line adapted from her mind healer. 

“I disagree. Tell me, which of my goals haven’t I achieved?” Draco demanded, a bit stung. 

“Oh, blast it, Draco. You can be so obtuse, at times,” Pansy sighed. “Listen, you don’t need more achievements. You've got ample achievements and I don't think you're satisfied. What you need is to be adored.”

The sentiment spurred a flash of anger behind Draco's breast bone. “I need no such thing,” he declared. He forced his anger aside. He should have known a hearty dollop of psychoanalysis was coming his way the moment he set foot in Pansy’s bedroom, but he could listen to her dictates without having to believe them. He had done so for years.

Pansy was not dissuaded. “Oh, please. I’ve known you for far too long to believe that. It’s who you are, Draco. You looked for it in school, you looked for it with your parents and the Dark Lord, and, I think, you looked for it with your professional success. But despite everything, you've still never quite secured the devotion that you sought, not from an equal. Oh, don’t glare at me like that, it's hardly a failing. We all need to be adored, in our different ways. So, you like a little recognition, a little commendation, some _gratitude_ , who doesn’t? Also, I'll bet–actually no, nevermind."

“What?” Draco demanded. He was annoyed with her evaluation, but also more drawn in than he cared to admit. 

“You’ll not like it if I say,” Pansy pouted. 

“Tell me,” Draco commanded. 

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I think this sort of need you have...well, I think it’s part of why you let your men to do what they do.”

Pansy was right, her words rankled. “Just because you don’t understand what I do doesn’t mean you need to ascribe fantastical meaning to it,” Draco refuted. 

“I don’t think I am,” Pansy considered. “It may get you off, I'm sure it does, but I also think you've got something to prove. Maybe only to yourself, but maybe not. You need to test yourself, produce evidence that you can withstand the pain, that you can forebear. I think you like to be told how strong you are, how brave, how good–”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco interrupted her, voice chilled. Pansy was circling too close to something aching and undefined within him, and Draco desperately wanted to leave it untouched and unexamined. “I’m not a frightened child anymore. I don’t depend on the praise and validation of others, at least I certainly hope I don’t."

“Yes, my love, you’re dreadfully self-reliant,” Pansy cooed, clearly humouring him. “And fine, maybe you can survive without all that, but why would you? I don’t see why can’t find someone to give you all that and then a cuddle, besides."

"Because that is not how I do things."

Pansy flung herself dramatically back down across the chaise. "Oh yes, and people are stagnant, unidimensional creatures that never ever grow or change, how silly of me to forget."

"Even if I wanted...both," Draco pondered softly, "I've no idea how one goes about it. What if I let in all his noise and chaos and then I resent it? Or what if I'm not _adoring_ enough in return. I'm not prone to warmth and sentiment, you know."

"Hm, I see what you mean," Pansy replied. "Although I would posit that could be because you've yet to really try it. Potter’s the earnest sort, and loyal, from what I know of the man. He could be just the thing. When do you see him again?”

“Tomorrow,” Draco confessed, wondering if he'd hoped Pansy would talk him out of it. Instead, she was encouraging the whole business. He supposed that made sense though, she'd always been a romantic, so long as that romance was kept well away from her own narrative. “He’s sent his children to stay with their grandmother for some time. Daphne’s agreed to watch Scorpius, on strict instructions that the wards will make it impossible for Astoria to visit or for my son to be removed.”

“You made fast work of it. Well, have you got reservations somewhere lush?”

“What?”

“For your date. I assume you’re taking him out somewhere?”

“No! Merlin, no. We’ll have dinner at his. Nothing public, you know how Potter tends to make his way into _The Prophet_ despite his best efforts.”

“Easier to shag at a private residence,” Pansy offered. 

“There will be no shagging!” Draco insisted. 

Pansy looked dubious. “Can he be rough enough for your tastes, do you think? I imagine he’d just be apologising for hurting you the whole time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco said, his jaw set. 

“Then again,” Pansy continued, ignoring him, “I suppose it is _Potter_ , and it is _you_. Perhaps he has some deep-seated aggression he wants to expel from how you went at him in school? He does look like quite a strong bloke in the magazines. Those shoulders, mm, don’t mind if I do. Auror training keeps them fit, doesn’t it? Maybe he could handle you after all…”

Draco groaned. “Whatever possessed me to be so frank with you, I’ll never know. Certainly some of my weaker moments.”

“Spirits are the usual culprit,” Pansy pointed out. “You always transform into a bit of a gossip after enough shots. But you’re sober as anything today, so actually, it must be my uncanny insight and enduring friendship.”

Draco harrumphed. 

“Well. You will tell me how dinner and definitely-not-shagging go, won’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” Draco protested. 

“Liar. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, then, provided you haven’t moved into the Potter residence already.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Draco grumbled, rising. Pansy presented her cheek for an air kiss, which Draco bestowed. 

“You will take some care to protect your brittle little heart, won’t you, darling?”

“You needn’t worry in that regard,” Draco insisted. He wished he sounded convincing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for sharing their thoughts in the comments! You're far too good to me!!!
> 
> Extra thanks to my delightful beta, MimbelWimbel for her thoughtfulness and speed! I'm so spoiled!
> 
> Happy Halloween 🎃 🎃 🎃!!!


	17. Seventeen - Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: references to kink

Harry wandered the halls of Eiderdown End helplessly, checking his watch too many times. It still wasn’t 6:30, not quite. Since the kids had gone to stay with Molly, he’d tackled the remaining messy rooms and even made a dent in the mountain of correspondence he’d shifted to the desk in his study.

He’d put away photos of just himself and Ginny, and in a moment of anxious bravery, he’d removed his wedding band, slipping it into the top drawer of his dresser, beneath the boxers that he no longer preferred, as they’d become somewhat too snug. He felt a bit vulnerable without it; vulnerable, but also reckless and, perhaps, free. 

He checked his watch again. 6:28. Was he supposed to be waiting in the drawing room for Malfoy’s arrival? Or was it better to appear busy, and then stroll in as though surprised to find Malfoy standing there? Harry didn’t think he’d felt this bloody nervous since he’d asked Cho Chang to the Yule Ball in fourth year. Harry winced—look how well that had turned out. 

The telltale woosh of the Floor sounded, and Harry turned, hurrying towards the drawing room. 

Malfoy, apparently not at all tumbled about by the Floo, stood upon the rug, shabby and stained with the myriad footprints of the Potter family. If Malfoy was feeling the jarring rush of nerves that Harry was, he didn’t show it. He looked impeccable, his grey button down matching his eyes. Malfoy wore his hair a bit longer now than he had when they were at school, and the platinum locks were kept from his face by what looked like a casual sweep, but what Harry suspected was anything but. Malfoy held two paper bags, one in each arm. He looked at Harry expectantly. 

“Potter,” he said in greeting. 

“Hi, ah, hullo. Oh!” Harry flushed guiltily, reaching out to take one of the bags. “Dinner. Right. Thank you, er, sorry.”

Malfoy allowed the transfer of the groceries, but he didn’t respond beyond that. Harry felt like he was drowning in his own uselessness. And now, here they were, close enough to touch, and Harry had not a single clue how to proceed. Before he could think too much about it, he darted in to press dry lips to Draco’s cheek. 

Harry’s blush deepened as he pulled back, trying to gauge Malfoy’s ever-inscrutable expression. 

“Sorry,” Harry repeated, “Was that alright? I—Merlin, I don’t know—”

The corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched upward, to Harry’s immense relief. “Potter, calm down before you wee on the rug like some sort of neurotic terrier.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “Sorry.”

“I’ve only been here thirty seconds and you’ve already apologised three times,” Malfoy pointed out. 

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Clearly,” Malfoy remarked drolly. “Well, come along. I’m hardly cooking the entire meal myself.”

Malfoy swept toward the kitchen, Harry following hopelessly along behind him. Harry tried not to notice the way those smart wool trousers fit snugly to Malfoy’s arse. 

_**/// ///** _

Harry felt a bit better with a task at hand. He dug out his favourite knife from a cluttered drawer and started chopping the vegetables. He let Malfoy sort out the venison— _venison!_ Harry was sure he’d not even known you could buy that in regular shops. Then again, Malfoy probably avoided regular shops in favour of specialty butchers’ and cheesemongers’ or something equally pretentious. 

“Potter, have you quite forgotten you are a wizard?” Malfoy asked dryly. 

“Huh?” was Harry’s eloquent reply. 

“Do you typically chop all your ingredients by hand?”

Harry was momentarily confused. “What?”

“You’re aware that there are spells for such things?”

“Oh,” Harry replied, stupidly. Sure, he was cognizant that such spells existed, he’d seen Ginny use them often enough. He just never bothered to learn them himself. They felt somehow lazy, though now that he recognised the thought, he knew it to be ridiculous. “Sure. I just don’t….know them. Per se.”

Malfoy snorted. “It is no wonder you are cooking averse. How hideously laborious.”

“Will you show me, then?” Harry asked. Without thought, he extended his arm, casting a silent _Accio_ for his wand. The bit of holly wood zipped into the kitchen from Merlin-knows-where and settled into Harry’s palm. Harry couldn’t quite remember when he’d last had use for it, as the majority of his magic was wandless these days. Nevertheless, he still preferred to learn new spells wand in hand. 

Draco started. “Merlin,” he breathed. 

“What?” Harry asked. 

“You must know it is...unusual for a wizard to spend so much time apart from his wand. Your aptitude for wandless, wordless magic is, well, it’s uncanny, to be frank. Many witches or wizards never learn a single spell that way, and yet for you, it’s effortless.”

“Oh,” Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He’d not thought much about it. “Just habit, I guess. Al was a finicky baby. I spent a lot of nights with him fussing in my lap between feedings. So I just started practicing wandless magic, simply for something to do. Moving things about on the wall, sending books from one end of the room to the other. It was all trivial, really, but I suppose I got the knack of it with practice.”

Malfoy emitted an amused huff of air. 

“What?” Harry asked again. 

“It always did infuriate me how easily things seemed to come to you. In school, I mean.”

Harry was surprised by this. “I was never an academic, not like you or Hermione. Transfiguration is still a chore, and Potions I’ve quite given up on.”

“No,” Malfoy allowed. “But you had natural talent: that stunt you pulled our first day on broomsticks; you somehow clobbering that mountain troll; dueling. All the stories whispered about your marvelous abilities used to drive me mad.”

Harry considered this. He supposed he’d known as a child that Malfoy had been jealous. The _why_ was rather less evident. From where Harry stood, Malfoy’s life had looked clearly more desirable: parents, money, a firm sense of belonging and an ease with the magical world that had taken Harry years to cultivate. 

“A bit funny, isn’t it?” Harry commented, “The things that matter when you’re a kid.”

“Mm,” agreed Malfoy. “And yet here I am, twenty years later and still envious of your talent.”

Harry felt the urge to apologise again. “Oh,” he said instead. “I mean what? You are? Of what?”

“I suppose just the magnitude of it.”

Harry wasn’t certain he knew what Malfoy was talking about. He was also not used to this honest, complimentary Malfoy. “Surely not,” he remarked with a forced grin. “You know loads more than I do. I don’t even know how to properly cut veg, turns out.”

Malfoy shook his head, as if dismissing a particularly bothersome thought. “Shall I teach you then?”

“By all means.”

_**/// ///** _

Malfoy’s gentle mockery continued throughout the meal preparation, but Harry found he didn’t much mind. It was a bit ludicrous that at 38 Harry still wasn’t entirely comfortable in his own kitchen. Having Malfoy there helped distract him from that anxious knot of hypervigilance that occupied the hollow of Harry’s spine whenever he worked in the kitchen, as though Vernon’s palm were to connect with his skull at any moment, or Petunia’s criticisms were to start up in earnest.

Harry had been embarrassed to identify these responses in himself when he’d left Hogwarts. He’d expected the nightmares of Voldemort, the grief of losing so many friends and mentors. Those emotions were clearcut, and easily divulged to Ginny or Ron or Hermione or anyone, really. It was a shared sort of trauma, and understandable. It was the activities of daily living that had unwittingly unnerved him. He’d spent his first year out of Voldemort’s shadow ostensibly living at Grimmauld Place, but actually staying more nights than not at The Burrow. Being alone had never appealed to him. 

It was only when Ginny had graduated and Harry and her had found themselves sorting out domestic tasks that all that business with the Dursleys had resurfaced. Harry found himself constantly looking over his shoulder with even the most basic of chores. He’d been oversensitive to Ginny’s suggestions. He’d not admitted the source of his unease to her for more than a year. Her solution had been simple: She’d deal with most of the domestic business, since he was working more hours as an Auror than she was at her temporary receptionist position. Well, it was supposed to have been temporary. 

The edge of his discomfort had faded somewhat over the years, but Harry had never quite shaken it when it came to cooking. Facing the counter left his back to the entrances, and he didn’t like it. 

The spells helped. Once cast, the knife set to chopping on its own, and Harry could turn to observe Malfoy, who was fussing with the old stove. Malfoy’s movements were practiced and elegant as he coated the meat with oil and seasoning, the steaks bobbing in the air as though suspended by an unseen string. Excess oil evaporated before it ever hit the counter below. Harry felt himself smile, because—he was beginning to learn—that was Malfoy exactly: tidy and precise to a fault. 

Harry’s eyes traveled along the line of Malfoy’s wand and up his arm to his shoulder, his neck. The bruises were all but gone now, and Harry felt an unexpected twinge of loss. The marks had been evidence of the unnamed something suspended between them. 

“What is it, Potter?” Malfoy demanded, his focus still on his task. The meat sailed through the air, landing with a wet smack and a sizzle in the waiting pan.

Harry contemplated his response, mapping the sharp angles of that face he’d once considered pointy. The adjective no longer quite fit, and instead Harry found he wished to map that decisive jaw line with a knuckle, to feel the ridge of a cheekbone beneath his thumb. 

“I want to touch you,” Harry said directly, shocked at his own brazenness. His words did not waver. “Only you’ve not said that I can.”

Malfoy turned, finally, leaning back against the counter, expression calculating. “Perhaps I like making you wait.”

But Harry was done with waiting. He took one deliberate step forward. Malfoy’s arms relaxed and he leaned back, his palms finding purchase on the wooden surface behind him. The posture was uncharacteristically unguarded, which made it all the more magnetic. It drove Harry mad. One step closer and Harry was right there. He reached out, bracketing the other man, gripping the counter ledge behind him. Their bodies were close: close enough that Harry could feel the radiating heat, but they didn’t touch. Harry’s eyes sought out Malfoy’s, issuing a plea or a challenge, Harry could hardly say. Malfoy’s pupils were wide, deep pits as he gave Harry a single permissive nod. 

Harry went for Malfoy’s throat. The movement was instinctive, thoughtless. There was nothing but the need to drag his teeth along the faint trace of bruising. As he did, Malfoy’s breath rasped in Harry’s ear. Malfoy extended his neck, granting access, and pressed forward until their bodies were flush. Harry soothed the reddening skin beneath his teeth with his lips, desperately wanting to leave sucking kisses in his wake, but knowing Malfoy’s sensibilities would never allow something as gauche or juvenile as love bites—at least not where they could so easily be seen. Harry shifted instead, finding the underside of Malfoy’s jaw, then, finally, his mouth. 

There was no contest, no battle for control, only Draco’s parting lips and Harry’s pursuit. That silent supplication thrummed through Harry like a second heartbeat, exhilarating him. He felt a sudden reactionary surge, his own magic spilling out, unsummoned, curling forward to wrap around Malfoy, to draw him in and bind him. Malfoy made a throaty noise of surprised satisfaction, and Harry let his own body follow the path of his magic: one hand rose to cup the back of Malfoy’s neck, the other settling on his lower back. 

Malfoy’s own palms came to rest along Harry’s ribs. The gesture was almost timid, and Harry wondered all at once if maybe he had assumed Malfoy’s experience to be greater than what it actually was. The man had been with other men, certainly, but maybe not quite like this. That Harry’s touch could reduce the otherwise prickly, particular Malfoy to the needy, pliant creature currently in his arms was unexpectedly electrifying. It felt like a secret to which only Harry was privy. 

Malfoy pulled away, only to trace a path with his mouth down to the collar of Harry’s T-shirt. The final kiss was replaced with the gentle pressure of Malfoy’s forehead against Harry’s clavicle.

“We ought to finish dinner,” Malfoy pointed out. They stood there, panting. Harry forced himself to lower his arms.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“You’ll have to let me go,” Malfoy commented. 

“What?” Harry asked, only to realise the pulse of his magic was still cocooning around the other man, urging him near. “Oh, shit, sorry, yeah.” Harry gathered in the unnamed spell, spooling the clinging tendrils of it with a moment’s regret. 

Malfoy sidestepped Harry, turning towards the stove, the venison turning in the pan with a tap of his wand. 

“See to the vegetables, will you?” he instructed.

“Oh, er, yeah, sure,” Harry said, summoning a glass dish from the cupboard and doing as he was bid. He fumbled the thing as he passed it to Malfoy, too focused on the slight flush on those usually pale cheeks. Harry had incited that and now he craved further evidence. He was eager to see what other such responses he could summon up in the man. Malfoy gave him a reproachful look, steadying the dish. He added oil and rosemary and placed it in the oven.

“Does that usually happen, then?” Malfoy inquired suspiciously, arms crossed. “Your magic trussing up your partner?”

“No!” Harry assured him. “I didn’t mean for it, you just were so...Merlin, I wanted…”

“What?” Malfoy pressed. 

“I think I just wanted you,” Harry admitted, his words coming quickly while his courage held. “Quite badly, I guess, wanted you close. It must have responded to that. But I don't know. Nothing like that's ever happened before. I mean, a few episodes of accidental magic when I was a kid, but that’s pretty normal, isn’t it?”

“Hm,” Malfoy assented. “I don’t usually go for bondage or what have you,” he informed Harry, “but–”

“Sorry, I’ll keep a tighter hold on it next time, it won’t happen again–,” Harry hastened to promise, flushing as images of a kneeling Malfoy, bound and helpless, sprung to mind. Harry didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d never gone in for all that business before, but Malfoy made the possibilities feel so terrifyingly tangible.

“ _But_ ,” Malfoy interrupted, “with you, I might allow it. Only with your magic, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathed. Malfoy raised an impatient eyebrow as if to imply he did not like having to repeat himself. “Alright.”

Malfoy nodded as if that was settled, although what ‘that’ was, Harry hardly knew. 

“What did it feel like?” he burst out. 

Without answering Malfoy turned, flicking his wand to open the oven. The venison went from floating serenely from the pan atop the stove, to nestling neatly beside the roasting carrots, onions, and sweet potatoes. 

“It was too tight,” he said finally. “Like I was being compressed by some sort of heavy machinery. I was trapped.”

“Shit,” Harry muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, as if to show he wasn’t a current danger. 

“You misunderstand me,” Malfoy continued. 

“Huh?” 

“Potter, you’re aware of my proclivities. I...I favour the extremes. I like when things are a little too hard, too rough, too much.”

“So…” Harry said slowly, “it was good then? My magic doing that to you?”

“Yes,” Malfoy sighed, as though speaking to a rather dimwitted child. “It was good. Very good.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could manage. 

“Quite,” Malfoy agreed. 

“You get–" Harry started, then trailed off, blushing deeper. He’d not really had to have these kinds of conversations with Ginny. That had just been what hurts or what feels good and the rest had been fairly straight forward. Harry shook that thought loose. He really didn’t want to think about Ginny right now. 

“Yes?” Malfoy asked. 

“Er,” Harry swallowed. He was an adult, he could talk about sex. It wasn’t even sex, at this stage, it wasn't much more than kissing. He just didn’t want to inadvertently insult Malfoy. “You become...not passive exactly, but sort of compliant? Like...makes me feel as though I could do what I wanted?”

“I do, yes,” Malfoy confirmed, “and I expect you could. I shouldn’t think this would come as a surprise, Potter. I thought I had been rather transparent. Does it bother you?”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, “Merlin, no, I–well, I rather like it, don’t I? It’s, erm. Exciting.”

Malfoy gave him a prim, satisfied smile. “Good.”

“Well,” Harry continued feeling about as eloquent as a bull. “I guess I’ll set the table.”

“Yes, do that.”

_**/// ///** _

Harry wasn’t convinced he had ever had venison, but it was very good. He told Malfoy as much. 

“Should be more tender,” Malfoy informed him, neatly spearing a square of meat with his fork. “If you hadn’t tangled me up in your magic, it would be.”

“Next time,” Harry said and felt a glow of anticipation when Malfoy simply nodded his agreement. “So, ah, how have you been?” Harry tried, supposing they should do at least some small talk. “Anything new?”

Malfoy considered him. “Not really, no,” he replied carefully. “I’ve mostly been preparing for the start of term.” He paused as if deliberating quickly with himself. “And I saw Pansy.”

“Parkinson?” Harry asked. He’d not thought about Pansy Parkinson in ages. 

“Mm.”

“Oh. How’s she?”

“Divine.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“It is.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Should he ask Malfoy to elaborate? Did he truly care how Parkinson was doing?

“Are you close then?”

Malfoy sipped his wine slowly. “Jealous, are we, Potter?”

Harry gaped. “No! I thought...Merlin, I don’t know you at all, really, do I? I thought maybe we could change that a bit.”

Malfoy’s returning smile was almost warm. “I suppose we could. In that case, yes, Pansy is a dear friend. Ridiculous and self-indulgent, but irritatingly insightful.”

“Were you seeking her insight?” Harry inquired, shoving a forkful of sweet potato in his mouth. 

Again, Malfoy was slow to respond. 

“Or, sorry,” Harry cut in, swallowing too quickly. The food was a thick lump as he tried to get it down. “That’s personal, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I rather thought personal was the point,” Malfoy commented. “I went to Pansy to get some clarification.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “On?”

“You, mainly. Or whatever I’m doing with you.”

Harry grabbed for his water glass, forcing down the rest of the sweet potato. “You told her?”

“She won’t say anything, you have my word.”

“I trust your judgment,” Harry said, shocked to find that the words were more or less true. “Well, did she clarify things for you? Because I’d also like to know, I think. What we’re doing. What _are_ we doing?”

“We’re having dinner,” was Malfoy’s infuriating reply. 

“Right,” Harry sighed. 

“And getting to know one another.”

“Okay. And that’s...it?” Harry realised he was a bit annoyed. This whatever-it-was with Malfoy. It felt bigger than dinner and a chat. 

“It’s a start,” Malfoy explained. “It’s a bit of a murky situation, isn’t it? You, freshly heartbroken, and both of us with children to consider. Seems foolhardy to rush into anything more concrete.”

Harry grumbled his agreement. Malfoy was hardly wrong. 

“Despite my perhaps somewhat jaded expectations, I find I quite like you, Potter,” Malfoy informed him, expression placid, as though confessions of affection were a daily occurrence for him. “I enjoy your company, I think you enjoy mine. Perhaps I’d thought one dinner might lead to another, if I’m being honest, but I had a conversation last night that might have stirred up the silt even further.”

“With Pansy?” Harry asked, nonplussed. 

“No. On another matter altogether. We’ll speak on it after dinner.”

Harry shook his head. Malfoy really was the bossiest git he’d ever known. It really ought to bother him. 

“We’re speaking now,” Harry pointed out. “You might as well tell me.”

“Later,” Malfoy determined. 

“There’s never a discussion with you, is there?” Harry challenged with a wry grin. “You just talk in that authoritative way of yours and everyone just does what you say without question.”

“Usually, yes. Why, is there something you would like to discuss?”

“Yes!” Harry insisted. “The thing you said can wait until after dinner.”

“Well, it can.”

“You’re impossible,” Harry muttered darkly, downing the rest of his wine in one long gulp. “I’ve really no idea why I...nevermind.”

“No, tell me.”

Harry pursed his lips, but Malfoy had been surprisingly open, so Harry reckoned the least he could do was return the favour.

“Why I want you around. But I do. These past couple of days, sorting through the house, I wanted to talk to you, get your perspective on things, you know? The house was quiet, I just wanted to sit in the drawing room after dinner and have a bit of a chat.” _And touch you some more_. But that part Harry didn’t say. 

“I see,” Malfoy said, giving nothing at all away. But Harry thought in the candlelight, as Malfoy took another sip of his dry white wine, that he looked quietly pleased with the confession. 

“You don’t make it easy,” Harry grumbled, sampling a carrot.

“Make what easy?” Malfoy requested. 

“Saying this stuff. Like I say I kind of want you around and you come in with a chilling ‘I see’. Not exactly reciprocity, is it?”

Malfoy took a bite of his supper, chewing carefully. He swallowed it down with another sip of wine. 

“I’m wary of over-promising,” he explained, “but I’d be lying if I said our conversations had not occasionally been on my mind.”

Harry grinned fully at that. “Yeah?”

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Will you always require declarations like this?”

Harry didn’t suppose there was any good in lying. “Probably,” he shrugged. “A bloke likes to know he’s missed.”

“I did not—” Malfoy choked, but the creeping flush high on his cheeks gave him away. 

Harry laughed, feeling like he had one up on Malfoy for the first time that night.

“Fine,” Malfoy muttered. “Maybe I did. I’ve allowed myself to become quite isolated in the past few years. I suppose it was nice to...not do that.”

The utter backhandedness of the compliment only amused Harry further. “Good to know you slightly prefer my company to abject solitude.”

Malfoy seemed to gather himself, his blush fading. His grey eyes flashed wickedly. “Given how highly I value my own company, Potter, you should take that as the ultimate praise.”

Harry laughed in earnest then, struck with the realisation that he was having an evening alone with Draco Malfoy—having what could reasonably be called a _date_ with Draco Malfoy—and that it was all going rather swimmingly. For the first time in months, Harry felt simply grand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for the long wait. I'm definitely not abandoning this story! I've just got a pinched nerve in my neck and so screen time is hard and sleep is difficult, so creativity is not exactly flowing. Hoping it will resolve soon-ish, but until then, updates will unfortunately be less frequent. 
> 
> Shout out to my astute beta, MimbelWimbel for her thoughtfulness. Also, she has just posted her first ever fic!!!!! And updates a lot more regularly than I do. Check out an intriguing dive into some very cool folklore at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292594/chapters/66682831


	18. Eighteen - Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of sex/sexuality.

As much as he enjoyed seeing Potter tripping over himself in an effort to navigate their evening, Draco was equally capable of appreciating the glimpses of Potter’s old confidence. Potter’s laughter had dispelled some of his self-conscious discomfort, and Draco now found himself to be more relaxed as well. Really, Draco wasn’t keen to acknowledge how wound up he’d become over the course of the day, but the nervous tension had been undeniable. He’d Floo called Pansy twice, much to her cackling delight. Privately, Draco thought the concerns she chose to mock were not as outlandish as she made them seem. After all, it was entirely possible that Potter had changed his mind, or that the crisis of self Draco had accused him of had transpired after all. 

But Potter seemed pleased to see him and they somehow even traversed their mutual confessions of interest with only mild discomfort, at least on Draco's part, and that was certainly new territory for him. And then there was the question of Potter’s runaway magic. Draco had never felt anything like it and had been loath to let it end. It had been overwhelming in the best way, shuttering Draco’s thoughts until there was nothing but the sensation of Potter’s incursion. Draco wondered how he could get the man to do it again. 

Potter reached for Draco’s now empty plate and stacked it atop his own. Their cutlery collected in one hand, Potter walked to the kitchen. Another missed opportunity for magic. Draco tossed his head and raised his glass to his lips. Maybe that was why Potter’s magic was always spilling over, he thought dryly, it wasn’t getting proper use. Draco finished the last of his wine and followed Potter into the other room. 

The tap was running to fill the sink, and Potter stood over it. Draco wanted to touch him. And why shouldn’t he? Potter hardly seemed opposed to it. Draco stepped in close and Potter stilled. Draco dipped his head, pressing his lips to the slope of Potter’s trapezius. Draco flicked his gaze up to observe Potter in the reflection of the window over the sink. The man’s eyes were downcast, his fingers clutching the lip of the discoloured porcelain. Draco shifted his mouth upwards, seeking the hinge of Potter’s jaw. 

Potter made a low noise, almost threatening. It sparked something anticipatory low in Draco’s belly. In an instant, everything changed: Potter whirled them round, and Draco found himself once again gloriously trapped between the man’s large frame and the unyielding ledge of hardwood. Potter’s movements had lost their hesitancy and he seemed half intent on consuming Draco, one hand tangled in his hair and the other wrapping fully round his back. 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Potter hissed, barely pulling his mouth from Draco’s. “The things you fucking do to me. You shouldn’t let me do this if you’re just going to take it away again.” His words were belied by another frantic press of lips. Cursing, Potter lurched back again, gritting his teeth unhappily. “Just tell me. Is whatever you have to say going to put an end to all this?”

It should, perhaps. Instead of answering, Draco went in for another kiss. Potter caved, leaning in, desire evident in the press of cock alongside Draco’s own. The hand in his hair tightened, and Draco relished the warning tingling across his scalp, promising pain. 

And then the sensation was gone, and the strong hand instead came to rest on Draco’s jaw, gripping it between a thumb and forefinger, the pressure just the right side of too hard. Potter yanked his mouth away, eyeing Draco suspiciously. 

“That’s not an answer,” he accused. 

Draco closed his eyes, focusing on the two points of pressure on the fine bone of his mandible. He pictured his bones as ripe for the snapping. He didn’t want an interrogation, he wanted violence. He wanted to suffer at Potter’s hands. 

Potter dropped his hold and stepped away, eliciting an involuntary, pitiful sound from Draco’s throat. 

“Come on,” Potter ordered, turning. 

Draco watched the broad back receding as Potter walked down the hall to the drawing room. With a sigh, Draco followed. 

“Sit,” Potter said, jerking his chin towards a wingback chair, shockingly clear of comics or other teenage detritus. 

Deciding that pouting didn’t become him, Draco sniffed and did as he was bid. Potter didn’t follow suit. Instead he hovered nearby, arms crossed, brows furrowed. 

“I don’t want to take things further if you’re leaving for France or you’re getting remarried or some nonsense,” Potter declared. “I mean, clearly I want to, but I think I’d regret it if I only got just the once. So, whatever it is, spit it out so I can make a decision on equal footing.”

Draco didn’t suppose he should focus on the idea of Potter’s insatiability when it came to Draco, but he lingered there for a moment anyway, flashing the other man a smug smile. 

Potter glared at him.

“Oh, it’s nothing as dramatic as all that,” Draco admitted. “Only I suspect an offer is coming your way, and it could...complicate things.”

“What are you talking about?” Potter demanded, looking taken off guard. Good, served the man right for interrupting what could have been a much more satisfying use of their collective time. 

Draco steepled his fingers, finding this tug between his desire to surrender and his need to maintain composure very tiresome. Potter was flustered again, underneath this burst of determination, though, and that was appealing in its own right.

“Stop looming,” Draco instructed. Potter narrowed his eyes, but when Draco refused to respond, the other man huffed and plopped himself down on the lumpy sofa. Draco briefly considered toying with Potter’s patience for a moment longer, but decided not to risk it. “Firstly,” Draco began, “you’re not hearing this from me.” He paused. 

“Yes, alright. I didn’t hear it from you.”

“Unsurprisingly, the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship has become available, as it does every year. I understand they have offered you the position before. This year, I believe they intend to extend a more lucrative offer—one that you might have difficulty refusing.”

“I—” Potter leapt to his feet, then forced himself to sit down again, his fingers curling and uncurling over the denim of his jeans. Jeans that fit poorly. Draco wondered if Potter would notice if someone were to spell them just a shade more snug, subtly, of course. Potter groaned and raised a hand to knead his forehead. “I’d hoped they’d stopped asking,” he muttered. 

Draco found himself genuinely surprised. He’d thought this might be a solution to the tension that accumulated in Potter’s shoulders that morning at Gringotts. “May I inquire as to your reasons for refusal? Only Heads of Houses are required to remain on the grounds overnight, and they’ve added a day nursery for the children of faculty.”

Potter shook his head. “How do you do it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Potter gave a hollow laugh.

“Nineteen years of commemorative speeches in the Great Hall...all those bright young faces and the place still feels like a graveyard. I’m fine to put on a public front for the kids, for the memorials, and for Teddy’s graduation, but Merlin, I half expect to trip over bodies as I walk the halls. I don’t know how you don’t.”

“I suppose,” Draco reflected, “because I didn’t die on the grounds.” 

Potter emitted a dry, bitter sort of exhale. “And I did?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know anything concrete. All I’m familiar with is the mythology. How much of that actually comes from you is another matter entirely. ” Draco wasn’t sure he expected an answer. It was strange how much of the story he felt he knew, and how little of it seemed to have truly come from Potter. But by Draco’s mother’s accounts in her pathetic desperate letters all those years ago, according to the flurry of post-war articles, and more academic theoretical post-mortems, Potter was a Horcrux, and as such, something in him had to have died. 

Potter dropped his hand to his lap and looked away. Draco hoped he wasn’t bungling this up too terribly. Trading kisses in the kitchen seemed eons away. “It’s impossible to know,” Potter murmured softly. “The farther ago it gets, the stronger the feeling of unreality. I hardly know if I can trust my memories. Maybe I did. Maybe I had some sort of out of body experience. Or maybe I hit my head and had a funny little dream." He paused, but when Draco only waited, the words continued in a deluge, as though Potter wasn't used to being listened to, and wasn't interested in bypassing the opportunity. "I lost a part of me," he explained, "but then was that part really me at all, or just an invasion, a malignancy of my soul? And coming back from it once made death all the more threatening. I doubted I’d get a third shot at being the boy who lived. My luck would run out. Half the events I can’t clearly remember, but I can recall that bone-deep dread of being brought before him like I was being placed on some sort of sacrificial altar, and it is that that comes rushing back in that damn castle. And my sacrifice was incomplete. That of others was...less so.” 

Draco felt ashamed for ever dismissing Potter as a man without depth. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It was ludicrous of me not to have considered all this. I can sympathise with those feelings, truly. I should have seen them at once.”

“I’ve dealt with it,” Potter said, still not looking at him. The words felt incongruent until the man continued. “I sleep soundly. I can barely remember the sound of Voldemort’s voice. I don’t panic like I know some people do; I don’t cry or shake or see things that aren’t there when I’m at the school, but that doesn’t mean I like it. It doesn’t mean I don’t think about _them_. I saw a mind healer for a bit. She said it was just survivor’s guilt, perfectly natural. I know those who died went into battle with their eyes wide open, that they believed in a cause, that it was that they were dying for, not just to protect me. I need reminding of that from time to time. Being at Hogwarts...makes it harder.”

Potter stood again, walking to the window, and looking out in the beginnings of the summer sunset. 

“Of course,” Draco acknowledged, trying for understanding without any accompanying soppiness. “It was foolish of me to bring it up. I didn’t think.”

“The worst part is, it would be just about perfect, wouldn’t it?” Potter demanded cynically. “Seeing my kids every day. Summers off. A wage actually worth something, a career I could feel proud of and that I think I might actually enjoy... I’m sure that year was no joke for you, either. How do you bear it?”

Not knowing if he should, but knowing that he wanted to, Draco joined the man at the window. His arm brushed Potter’s. Neither pulled away. 

“Hogwarts has given me a life I was not convinced I could secure,” Draco explained. “I’m respected there, and useful. I have a debt I can never repay, I accept that, but this feels like a contribution I can make without sacrificing my livelihood. It provides a quality of life for my son.”

“And walking the halls?” He felt the press of Potter’s arm increase against his, as if seeking warmth, but it wasn’t a cold evening. 

“I can avoid the seventh floor much more easily than you could the Great Hall. But I suppose it’s also just the ordinariness of it. The surroundings become just another part of my day, the anxiety fades in time.”

Potter turned away from the window, examining Draco’s face. “I’m not sure I’m as capable of that sort of separation as you,” he sighed. “It would be a terrible idea.”

To Draco’s surprise, Potter stepped closer. He reached out and curled a hand around Draco’s waist, then reeled him in. Potter’s shaggy head dropped to Draco’s shoulder. Draco felt arms wind around him, pulling their bodies closer, into some approximation of an embrace. Potter was seeking comfort, Draco realised, and what’s more, the man seemed confident that it was something Draco could provide. Cautiously, he allowed his own arms to encircle Potter’s sturdy shoulders. 

Draco wasn’t sure how long this all was supposed to last, but thankfully Potter eased back enough to lift his head and press his lips to what was quickly becoming his preferred spot on Draco’s neck. Being kissed felt easier than the raw openness of the moment before. 

“Sorry,” Potter’s voice was gruff. “I didn’t mean to get into all that.”

Draco slid a hand into Potter’s hair. “It’s fine,” he said. “It was my own thoughtlessness that brought us here.”

Potter kissed a line along Draco’s jaw. “So, you thought if I accepted the job…”

“And things went poorly between us...” Draco answered, picking up the thread. “I wouldn’t want to bring that into the workplace.”

“But I’m not going to, so…” The arm still looped around Draco’s back tightened suggestively. 

“So, yes, Potter,” Draco conceded dryly, “I suppose we might proceed.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Potter chuckled against Draco’s skin, a playful levity to his tone. His arms released their hold on Draco’s body and began to toy with the first button below his throat. Draco felt his heartbeat quicken in anticipation.

“Am I?” Draco demanded, confused. 

“Potter,” Potter mimicked. His voice dropped to a gruff murmur. “You still going to be calling me that when I’ve got you twisted up in my magic?”

“I might,” Draco threatened, suppressing a groan. Potter released the button and kissed Draco’s exposed chest. Draco gasped as the kiss turned to a sucking pressure, Potter’s teeth grazing the skin he’d brought between them. “Fuck, H-Harry."

“Better.”

Draco felt the wicked grin against his chest as the first tendrils of Harry’s magic started creeping round him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your well wishes. I so appreciate you taking the time to read this story!
> 
> Major thanks to my astounding beta MimbelWimbel for her patience and her reassurance!


	19. Nineteen - Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ATTENTION!** This is all smut, y'all. Note the increased rating and please skip if you think it is not for you! You won't miss any plot, promise.

“You think it’s wise to be doing this in full view of the fireplace?” Malfoy queried. “Anyone could show up.” 

Reluctantly, Harry withdrew from his exploration of Malfoy’s left clavicle. 

“Not likely,” Harry grumbled. 

“No?” Malfoy questioned. “You can’t imagine a world in which James would have a row with his brother and come storming back home?”

Curse the man and his accurate assessment of Jamie. “Fine,” Harry conceded. “Where to then? My bedroom?”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. “No.”

Harry was inwardly relieved. He didn’t want to do whatever he was about to do with Malfoy in a room that still smelled faintly of Ginny, surrounded by the possessions she deemed not worthy enough to escape with. “I’ll make up one of the guest rooms.” 

Impatiently, Harry marched down the long hall filled with bedrooms, trying not to think about his utter inexperience or the mysteries that were Malfoy’s expectations, and to focus instead on how glorious it felt to get his mouth on the other man’s skin. Harry wished he’d had more than half a glass of wine with dinner. His nerves jangled about insidiously as he rifled through the linen closet trying to find sheets that weren’t decorated with little Golden Snitches and hovering broomsticks. He didn’t need Malfoy to tease him for his lack of magic this time. He sent the sheets careening into one of the guest bedrooms with an impatient gesture. He grabbed a couple of pillow cases as well and entered the room, using another spell to light the candles in their sconces. Malfoy slipped in quietly behind him. 

While Harry got the over-plump pillows into their cases, Malfoy set about finishing the work Harry started: unbuttoning his shirt. His movements were unhurried and without any hints of the self-consciousness thrumming beneath Harry’s skin. Malfoy took the time to hang his shirt up in the empty closet and set his wand down on a mostly empty bookshelf.

Harry all but threw the pillows back on the bed. It was a paltry thing, faded pale blue sheets and pillows looking fit to burst. 

“Will this do?” Harry asked urgently, he was not sure what he would do if Malfoy backed out now. 

Malfoy observed the display, then transfigured the whole scene into something much more lush, replete with a heavy midnight blue duvet in place of the patchwork quilt in the corner. 

“Needs must,” Malfoy said dryly. 

Harry didn’t waste time on being offended. He allowed himself to spend a moment taking Malfoy in instead. The man wore a ribbed white jersey vest which exposed the wiry musculature of his squared shoulders. Harry stepped in close, pressing his lips below the round curve of Malfoy’s shoulder joint. The skin there was pale as parchment and equally in need of marking up. 

“You ought to get out in the sun once in a while,” he murmured, giving into his urge to suck a love bite into Malfoy’s waiting flesh. 

“If you’re going to tell me what to do, try to keep it less in the vein of personal health,” Malfoy instructed. 

Harry ignored the critique, tugging on Malfoy’s vest until it came free of his trousers. When at last it did, Harry thrust both hands up the newly revealed opening, running eager fingers along the warm skin, and settling on Malfoy’s ribs. It wasn’t enough, though, and Harry yanked at the offending vest. 

“Get this off,” he urged. 

Malfoy complied, stripping off the bit of white fabric and tossing it onto the old wicker chair in the corner. 

Harry saw them then, the jagged white scars slashing across Malfoy’s chest and abdomen. Harry could almost remember the frantic pattern of his wand as he’d hurled the spell from the bathroom floor that afternoon long ago. 

He reached out. He didn’t know why he’d assumed there would be just one neat line bisecting Malfoy’s chest. He should have thought: His magic had been wild and desperate, not orderly and precise, and the silvery slash marks on Malfoy’s skin reflected that. It looked like he’d been ravaged by some wild animal with unforgiving claws. Harry traced the worst of the lot, which began just above Malfoy’s left hip bone almost to a hair below his outer clavicle. Malfoy hissed at the touch, arching so as to push more firmly into the curious pads of Harry’s fingers. 

“It doesn’t still hurt?” Harry demanded. 

“‘ _For enemies’_ ,” Malfoy replied coldly. “Snape told me what he’d written in that damn book. He was able to close the wounds, but he couldn’t take the pain away, not entirely.”

“Merlin,” Harry exclaimed, his head snapping up to look Malfoy in the eyes, “I’m so—”

“For the last time, Potter,” Malfoy spat, “I don’t want your apologies.” He covered Harry’s hand with his own, and ground the probing fingers into his scar with a violent shudder, then groaned. 

“You like that?” Harry entreated. “Truly?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and yanked Harry’s hand downwards, pressing it against the erection which was plenty prominent even through the wool trousers. 

“What do you think?” Malfoy demanded. 

The prospect made Harry’s blood boil in furious excitement. Leaving his hand where Malfoy had put it, he dipped his head, finding another ragged section of the scar on Malfoy’s lean pectoral and biting into it as he would into an apple. The cock in his hand leaped and Harry tightened his grip. 

Harry eased from a bite to a kiss. He abandoned Malfoy’s erection to wrap both hands around the man’s ribs, holding him in place as he raised his head to meet Malfoy’s firm, pink lips. 

“Tell me what it feels like,” Harry insisted between kisses. 

“Like some sort of cruel scalpel, slicing into me. I feel it in my spine, it overwhelms me. It’s like nothing else.”

"And you _really_ like that?" Harry wondered in disbelief. 

"Potter..." The word was an irritated warning that Harry thought it best to heed.

He bit back another apology, and instead dug a knuckle into another bit of scar tissue. 

Malfoy made a strangled whimper. "Fuck, yes. Just like that."

“Merlin,” Harry said, breathlessly.

He pictured Malfoy naked and writhing, being brought to the brink by some nameless man in an upscale hotel. The vision brought with it a vicious streak of icy, unearned jealousy which cut Harry through. “Is this what you do,” he accused, “when you find your men? You let them put their hands and mouths on the marks I left on you?” He sounded unhinged, and he knew it, but Malfoy inspired a possessiveness Harry could barely comprehend. 

“Don’t exactly shag fully clothed,” Malfoy scoffed. 

Harry felt murderous. He raked his nails fiercely over Malfoy’s scars, making him cry out. 

Malfoy reached out blindly, gripping the hem of Harry’s T-shirt. “But I don’t tell them,” he confessed. “I’ve never told anyone. Convention plays mostly towards whipping my arse and my back. Some figure it out, but I’ve only ever admitted it to you, just now. Believe me, Harry.”

Harry felt his sudden anger dissipate and his untamed magic burst forth triumphantly at the sound of his name in that husky, rasping voice, as though Malfoy’s throat was already raw from the pain. It formed thick, invisible vines which twisted insistently around Malfoy’s pale arms. 

“I want to be the one to give you those things you need,” Harry revealed, finding the words to be true. There was something mesmerising in Malfoy’s pain, how he opened himself to it, how he somehow withstood it, and allowed Harry to extract it. Harry wondered if it shouldn't feel wrong to act on this new, unexamined impulse. Surely it was against his nature. And yet, while all of Harry’s life was spiraling out beyond these walls, here his focus telescoped inwards to a single point. That Malfoy wanted something that Harry could give. Maybe not perfectly, but Malfoy hadn’t been stingy with his captivating reactions yet, Harry figured it would be pretty clear if he somehow misstepped. “I want to be the one to see you like that, not some stranger. I didn’t think I did, but I do. I want you strung up and begging.” As if heeding his words, Malfoy’s arms were pulled upwards, crossing at the wrists, as if he was hanging suspended by them from a hook in the ceiling. 

Malfoy gasped and it gave Harry pause, grounding him after that strange wave of irrationality. He retreated, his hands suddenly gentle on the other man’s waist. He kissed Malfoy’s mouth again. “If something hurts too much, you’ll say so, yeah? I haven’t done this before, the last thing I want is to bollocks it up. You’ll tell me if I overdo it?”

“It won’t,” Malfoy insisted. “You won’t.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Harry growled sternly. He couldn’t do this if Malfoy was just going to martyr himself with no concern for his well-being.

“Yes, fine,” Malfoy groused. “If I need you to stop I’ll say so.”

Harry tugged at his magic, jerking Malfoy’s arms behind his head and his body upwards, until he was balanced precariously on the balls of his feet, not quite able to find easy purchase. 

“What do you like?” Harry tried to infuse his voice with a bit more authority. He was pleased when the question sounded like an order. “Besides the scars, what else?”

Malfoy closed his eyes and gave a stuttering breath. “I want to feel you,” he murmured. It sounded closer to a plea than Harry was expecting, but he obliged, ridding himself of his shirt and stepping in close until they were chest to chest. He nipped at Malfoy’s neck sweetly. 

“What else?” 

Malfoy licked his lips. “Impact,” he whispered. “I like to be hit, anywhere but my cock and bollocks.” Harry winced inwardly. That was not something he’d ever considered and he was secretly relieved Malfoy wasn’t asking for it. 

“Face?” Harry prompted, curious. 

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed eagerly. “If you don’t leave marks where others can see them.”

“Of course,” Harry agreed. 

“And—” Malfoy cut himself off with a swallow. Harry watched the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“What is it?” Harry pressed. 

“I don’t want to be degraded, exactly.” Malfoy’s voice was strained with what Harry realised with surprise must be nerves. “But…I like to be made to feel ashamed, a bit. For wanting it. For being desperate. I like it if you take your pleasure before allowing me mine.”

Harry got the feeling he was the first man to hear these confessions spoken aloud, and he felt strangely privileged. 

“Finally my chance to put you in your place after all these years?” he teased, keeping the words light and playful. “I think I’ll enjoy that.”

Despite the strain on Malfoy’s muscles from his perilous position, he seemed to relax infinitesimally, as though relieved that Harry hadn’t mocked his desires. It would seem a cruel turn, Harry thought, to disparage secrets so rawly given. He kissed the underside of Malfoy’s jaw, and stepped back, admiring the view. 

Malfoy was teetering on his toes, unable to stay fully still, and yet his movements were still graceful. The long muscles of his arms and trunk were pulled taut.

“Merlin,” Harry murmured. “Draco, you’re bloody gorgeous.” 

The other man froze at the sound of his name, then looked away, his cheekbones stained pink in the candlelight. Gone was his mask of supercilious civility and Harry’s heart surged with a brutal affection. Harry allowed himself to savour the sight a moment longer. Malfoy wasn’t emaciated but he was a shade too skinny and had been ever since his trip overseas. Harry got the feeling Malfoy ignored such pedestrian things as regular mealtimes when left to his own devices. The wool trousers hung low on Malfoy’s hips. 

“Can I remove these?” Harry inquired, voice low, his fingers hovering over the flies.

Malfoy gave a quick nod. 

Harry returned his lips to the white scars splashed across Malfoy’s chest as he unhooked the button atop the trousers, and unfastened the flies. He stripped Malfoy of those along with his pants and socks, until the man was naked, still poised carefully on his bare toes. Harry palmed Malfoy’s impatient cock. 

“My,” he remarked snidely, trying to establish the tone Malfoy had admitted to liking, “somebody’s eager.”

For a moment that felt like eternity but was really just seconds, Harry felt an unnerving terror. It would be so easy for Malfoy to tear down this fledgling dynamic with a sneer or a laugh, by making Harry and his play-acting ridiculous. Because that was what this was, Harry knew, simply a pretense, borrowing some of Malfoy’s self-assuredness for a time, and trying it on. Harry urged himself not to feel foolish; if Draco hadn’t wanted it, he wouldn’t have asked. _Draco_. The name snagged in Harry’s thoughts, as though by even thinking it he was jinxing the possibility that this thing between them could grow. Despite that, he wanted to feel the sounds in his mouth, wanted to claim them, somehow, and undo the decades old habit that served only as a barrier. He wasn’t sure he should risk it. 

The words seemed to have struck the right chord, thankfully, because Malfoy whined lowly and thrust forward into Harry’s fist. Harry squeezed the cock again, adjusting to the phenomenon of holding someone else’s prick. 

“Will it stay like this if I hit you?” he asked, enthralled by the idea. “Hard and desperate for me? Or does violence quell it?”

“Can’t quell it,” Malfoy muttered through gritted teeth. “Nothing does.”

“Shame,” Harry tutted. “Shall I hit you anyway?”

“Please,” Malfoy rasped. 

Harry stood back, feeling suddenly ridiculous for not thinking this through. He didn’t have a whip or a paddle or what have you, and using his hands felt wholly insufficient. 

“Shit,” he muttered, his facade faltering. “I don’t have, you know, anything to do it with.”

“I assumed,” Malfoy replied. “There’s a tawse in the kitchen, tucked in one of the grocery bags.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Harry had summoned the thing, feeling the sturdy leather handle snap against his palm. It was a broad instrument, thin but firm, with two flattened prongs. Harry felt a rush of confidence realising that Malfoy had considered this, had planned for it. He’d left the Manor hopeful for this very moment. Harry wasn’t about to fuck it up.

“Anything I should know?” Harry asked, adjusting his grip. He was surprised how comfortable it felt in his hand.

“Common sense is usually enough. Be mindful of my spine and kidneys, that sort of thing.”

Harry nodded. He stalked around Malfoy, surveying his prey. He contracted his fingers once or twice around the handle of the tawse, grounding himself. Then, with the sounds of Malfoy’s anticipatory breaths in his ears, Harry drew his arm back and swung it forward. It came down with a satisfying thwack across Malfoy’s flank. 

Malfoy cried out, staggering helplessly off balance, scrambling to regain his footing. The sight was breathtaking, Draco—and Harry felt suddenly certain he could lay claim to the word now—starkly beautiful by candlelight, determined to forebear. Harry waited for the sting of regret or guilt for landing the blow, but it didn't come, waylaid by Draco's obvious desires, his desperation for what Harry could give. Before the other man could re-establish his composure, Harry brought the tool down again across both scrawny arsecheeks. 

Even in the dim light, Harry could see the rush of blood to the surface, staining the delicate skin pink in tantalising, well defined stripes. He liked it so much, he did it again, and again, until Draco’s sides and back were reddened and his breath came heavy from skittering uneasily in place. Harry came close, pressing his chest flush against Draco’s fiery hot back, and reached around. He was half surprised, half pleased to find the man’s cock still hard when he gripped it. 

“Nothing deters you, hm?” he commented assessingly. 

“No,” Draco replied breathily, “I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” Harry drawled congenially, stroking Draco’s prick with a slow, unsatisfying rhythm. “I know needy things like you can’t help themselves.”

Draco gave a frustrated moan and pushed his hips uselessly forward. Harry swatted him on the side of the arse. “Not now,” he scolded. “I understood I was to enjoy you first.”

With his free hand, Harry lazily slapped the tawse upwards, striking where he knew Draco’s scars to be congregated. He felt the prick in his hand lurch and he grinned into Draco’s shoulder blade. 

“What do you think?” Harry asked. “Can you take a little more, or should I let you down?”

“Just a bit more,” came the haggard response. “Please, Harry. Just a little more.”

The request shuddered through Harry like victory. He’d done nothing but disappoint everyone these past months, but in this he was excelling, even by Draco Malfoy’s assumably discerning standards. Merlin, it felt invigorating to be _good_ at something again.

Harry pulled back and spun Draco in place. His arms remained wrenched up over his head, and Harry was startled to realise the man’s face was wet with tears. 

“Shit, babe, are you alright?” Harry implored, instantly dropping his swaggering play act. His hand flew up to cup Draco’s face. He was an instant away from recalling his magic and cradling the man to him when Draco emitted a huff of irritation. 

“It’s a pain response, nothing more,” Draco insisted. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

Harry went up on his own toes to press a kiss to Draco’s salty lips. “You sure?”

“Hit me again, Potter, or I swear I’ll—”

Harry laughed and flicked one of Draco’s exposed nipples, pebbled in the cool air.

“Not really in a position to be making threats, are you?”

Draco cried out then harrumphed, but Harry soon soothed his displeasure with a series of swift strikes to the sides of those lean pale thighs. Not only was the whole ordeal arousing, Harry realised, but it was also rather fun, strutting about, making Draco jump and moan and want him so terribly. Harry felt alight with endorphins, and didn’t even question his decision when at last he sank down, kissing the reddened skin below Draco’s too-prominent hip bones. 

“Can I?” he asked, close enough for his breath to ghost across the skin of Draco’s erection. 

“Fuck,” gasped Draco, arching in his restraints, “I want...just don’t let me…Please!”

Harry grinned and swiped his tongue experimentally across Draco’s cockhead. The vaguely unpleasant taste of precum was instantly made worth it by the strangled yelp of surprise that sounded overhead. 

The intensity of Draco’s response intrigued Harry, and he dipped forward, taking the head in his mouth. He sucked slowly, infuriatingly so, he knew. He could sense the tension in Draco’s thighs, where the harsh welts from the tawse contrasted against pale skin and white blond hair. Harry dragged unrelenting fingertips across the irritated stripes. Draco tried to press forward into the pleasure and the pain, but in doing so, lost his footing—his binds not allowing him any such leeway. Reflexively, Harry gripped a bony hip to steady the other man before encouraging one lean thigh up and onto his shoulder. Draco’s heel dug into Harry’s back with urgency. 

Between Harry’s lips, Malfoy seemed to grow impossibly harder and the sounds he made as he tossed his head left Harry feeling reckless and mighty. He increased the pressure and pace until he sensed the muscles in Draco’s abdomen tightening in anticipation. 

“Bloody hell,” Draco managed to spit out. “Potter, be careful or…”

“You’d better not,” Harry instructed, withdrawing completely. “I’d be severely disappointed.” He eased Draco’s leg off his shoulder and placed a kiss low on his belly. Harry rose and stood back to appreciate the rise and fall of Draco’s chest, the whipcord muscles in his outstretched arms. Harry reached forward to once again wrap his hand around Draco’s cock. 

“You almost went over,” Harry accused. 

“Yes,” Draco admitted unhappily. He was doing his best to stand still, to not press forward and seek release, Harry could tell. 

“Without my say so.”

“Yes,” Draco repeated miserably. Harry tightened his grip. 

“You truly can’t control yourself, can you?” Harry stated, marveling at how the knowledge emboldened him. 

“No, Harry, I’m sorry,” came the muted response. Draco’s eyes were downcast, his cheeks flushed with pink streaks of exertion and shame. He was glorious.

“You need me to do it for you, hmm?” Harry pushed. 

“Yes,” Draco hissed, the response curt as though the admission pained him. 

“Say it,” Harry demanded. 

For a moment, Draco didn’t respond and Harry wondered if he’d gone too far. He heard Draco take a ragged, uneasy breath.

“I need your control, Harry. Please.”

Harry felt as though his chest was blown open with the magnitude of the confession. This wasn’t play-acting any more. It felt much bigger than both of them. 

Harry gave a final squeeze to Draco’s desperate prick, then dropped it. Leaning in, Harry took Draco’s chin in one hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. 

“You have it,” Harry promised. “As long as you want it, you have it.” He pressed their mouths together in a fevered, boundless kiss, only pulling back when he thought he couldn’t bear the immensity of his own feelings a moment longer. He stepped away. Draco was breathless and he wouldn’t meet Harry’s gaze. 

Without warning, Harry ended the spell which kept the other man suspended. Draco collapsed in a heap before scrambling to his knees, he looked up then, a vicious need glinting in his ice grey eyes. 

Harry leaned back against the bed. He didn’t have to say a word, Draco simply came to him, making short work of his flies and swallowing Harry’s cock without preamble. It was like nothing Harry had ever experienced: the eager heat and the nimble tongue that seemed to crave him. 

“You really do like this, don’t you?” Harry murmured, fisting Draco’s hair with one hand and bucking ruthlessly into the proffered mouth. 

Draco made a greedy noise in his throat in answer. 

“Never imagined you’d be this way,” Harry said, giving a tug to Draco’s hair and forcing himself deeper. Draco didn’t even flinch. “But I see it now. Half your life is an act to hide the truth of your desire. I know the truth. You belong right here, kneeling before me with your whole body aching from what I did to it.”

His words made Draco’s attentions even more furious. Harry knew he wouldn’t last much longer. 

“Touch yourself,” he demanded. 

Draco’s hand was shaking with adrenaline but he reached down and gripped his unflagging cock, stroking it. 

“You’ve been so good,” Harry said, just letting words fall from his mouth without thinking. “You took everything I wanted you to take, I can see it on your skin, the way you’re burning for me. You’ll feel those marks all night. And tomorrow. You’ll see them on your skin every day and know it was me who put them there. And what’s more, you begged for them. You’ve been incredible, Draco, so good for me. Finish me off now, babe, and then you can come too, I want you to.”

It was the permanence of what he had done that put Harry over. Knowing that even if he didn’t see Draco for a week, the man would still wear Harry’s handiwork. Not just that, but Draco had pleaded for it. Almost before he’d finished the thought, Harry was crying out. He’d half expected Draco to pull off, they’d not talked about all the things they should have, but Draco didn’t flinch, swallowing diligently even has his own orgasm caught up with him, spilling onto the floor. 

For a moment they stayed like that, frozen. Finally, Harry released the death grip he had on Draco’s hair, and stroked gently through it instead. Draco maneuvered himself off of Harry’s cock, and pressed his forehead against one of Harry’s thighs, breath coming quick and harsh. 

“C’mere,” Harry muttered, shucking off his pants and trousers then groping for Draco’s arm and yanking him, unresisting, upwards. Harry kissed that gorgeous, filthy mouth, then collapsed backwards onto the unused bed, pulling Draco with him. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know that? Amazing, bloody perfect.”

Without anything that could be described as grace, they shuffled upwards until they found the pillows at the head of the bed. Harry slung an arm around Draco’s waist and curled into him. Draco wriggled closer, seeking Harry’s heat. Harry wondered if he ought to say something more, but instead with his lips pressed to Draco’s shoulder, he drifted off.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much, everyone, for your patience during my (too slow) recovery. This week is finals but after that I have break, and I intend to write as much as I can!! Thanks for reading and for all your thoughtful, encouraging comments last chapter. I wouldn't do this if not for you!
> 
> Thanks to the phenomenal MimbelWimbel for beta-reading, and for challenging me to actually think shit through.


	20. Twenty - Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some discussion of sex, kink, and sexuality.

Draco had half expected some post-coital panic on Potter’s part. It was one thing to kiss a bloke, but another thing entirely to suck a man’s prick and have yours sucked in return. More than one man Draco had been with had turned wrathful once the fun was over. But the gentle snores reverberating through the room indicated that no such insecurities plagued Potter. Draco could feel the solidity of the man’s broad body against his, the heaviness of the arm wrapped round him. It was Draco’s own mind, it seemed, that was not interested in resting. 

Draco had wondered if Pansy would be proven right: that Potter would fumble and apologise his way through the encounter, but any such impulse seemed to have fled the moment Potter had felt the tawse in his hand. It had been exciting, Draco had to admit, to be strung up like that. Typically, Draco refused to be restrained. He savoured the feeling of having to bear it, of _making_ himself do so. But Potter’s precarious bondage had left him breathless, caught between trying to keep his footing and withstanding the heavy blows which made him ache with pain and soaring need. He’d not expected Potter to put his mouth on him, either, and the way he had done it...it was as if he had been hoping to wind Draco up even further, to deny him and not simply to please him. When he’d pulled off, Draco had almost screamed in frustration. Previous partners came in two unsatisfying flavours: men who neglected Draco’s cock entirely, or men who were too generous with their attentions, desperate to please. Neither sufficed. Potter existed at the boundary between the two: urging forward then pulling back, providing and refusing. 

Draco shivered. 

“You cold, babe?” Potter’s words were heavy with sleep as he kicked down the duvet low enough so that he could yank it back up and cover their bodies. Draco bit his lip at the wholly _common_ diminutive which he would ordinarily forbid. Except it felt so...Potter, that Draco only slightly minded. Worse, he almost liked it. 

Behind him, Harry cuddled in closer, nuzzling Draco’s neck and working a leg between Draco’s own. 

Draco waited to feel trapped. This sort of behaviour made him feel trapped. 

The reaction didn’t come. Instead, there was only warmth and a sense of being rather cared for in a way he wasn’t sure he appreciated. Any hopes he’d had that being with Potter would somehow get it out of his system were clearly dashed. 

Potter stirred again, unsurprising as it was early yet, and ran lazy fingertips over the back of Draco’s hand. Draco had an absurd instinct to turn his hand over and link his fingers through Potter’s and just give in to sleep. He clamped it down, lying still. 

“Sorry,” Potter grunted. “Drifted off there. You alright? You need anything for the…” His hand retracted to find Draco’s ribs, where it skated across a series of raised lines left by the tawse. Draco wanted to press up into the pressure, to make it all start again. His cock gave an interested but not overly optimistic twitch. 

“No,” he said, instead. 

“You sure?” Potters asked. 

“I like to feel them,” Draco heard himself reply matter-of-factly. He swallowed. The words were too honest. What was it about Potter that made him bleed honesty? It was exhausting. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathed with an air of reverent appreciation. “That’s, Merlin, that’s... _fuck_.”

“Eloquent,” Draco quipped, using sarcasm as an easy defense to re-establish their standard footing: chiding Potter and extracting the expected counterattack.

It didn’t come. Potter chuckled good-naturedly instead. “Is anyone around you?”

“Hm,” Draco responded, noncommittally.

They lay in silence for another minute. 

Potter cleared his throat. “Was that alright? What we did?”

_Alright_. Draco wanted to laugh. Potter really had no idea how expertly he’d taken Draco apart. 

Potter hurried on: “Because you were, well, bloody incredible and I had no idea I was going to just _like_ that sort of thing so much but if it was too much or you’d like something else I would rather you tell me.”

Draco stilled. He struggled giving praise; he’d far rather receive it. His mouth felt dry. 

“Potter,” he started, his voice felt like gravel in his throat. “It was, you were...precisely what I wanted.”

The words were woefully inadequate, but Potter didn’t seem to mind.

“Well, that’s good then,” he said brightly, and resumed petting Draco as though he were some overgrown housecat. Draco attempted to summon the energy to be irritated. He wanted to bristle, to regret this. It was too unwieldy, there was too much room for complication, it could all break so very badly. But Potter’s hand was steady and warm, offering reassurance. Potter clearly could fall into this thing as though there were nothing so easy in the world. 

Draco turned over. Harry—no, Potter, better to keep some distance—smiled fondly at him. Draco wasn’t sure he could bear it. Without stopping to think, he collapsed forward, burying his face in Potter’s chest, clinging to him like a child. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so suddenly and pathetically lost. 

Potter gathered the eiderdown and fitted it snugly to Draco’s shoulders, stroking his back and kissing his hair. 

“Alright, love?” Potter asked curiously. 

Draco flinched. No, it was not bloody alright. Potter slipped into intimacy as though it were a second skin, whereas Draco felt he’d recently been stripped of his. 

“Don’t call me that,” he growled.

“Sorry,” Potter replied earnestly, his tone on an even keel and his hands still moving gently over Draco’s head and neck and back. “It’s just—You seem upset.”

Draco didn’t know if he was upset. He didn’t know what he was. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that,” he ground out, still smothering himself in Harry’s chest. 

Potter’s ministrations finally paused. “Er...okay,” he said gently. “But you just said—”

“I know what I fucking said,” Draco barked. He couldn’t get it out, whatever it was he wanted to say. Maybe because he couldn’t name it himself. “I mean, that _good_. I thought we’d give it a go, get off, get it out of our systems, maybe move on, or maybe even stay mates, I don’t know. That or it would be total rubbish and we’d write it off as a blunder. Or maybe I didn’t think that, but I rather hoped for it. Would have simplified the matter.”

To Draco’s surprise, Potter’s chest rumbled as he let out another low chuckle. “And you didn’t think of letting me in on your perceptions of this as a sort of one-and-done exchange? Surely you know that’s not really my approach.”

“Yes,” Draco sniffed, “but if I’d given that voice then you might not have done it at all. And I...wanted you to.” He knew as the words left his mouth just how rotten they sounded. 

But Potter only laughed harder. “So, what you’re saying is you’ve not changed as much as you might like people to think.”

Draco finally pulled back and met Potter’s eyes. “Whatever do you mean?” he demanded. 

Potter curled one hand around Draco’s face. Draco could tell the man was holding back a grin. Poorly. “Bit manipulative, babe,” Potter pointed out, his nose scrunching adorably. And then he fucking kissed Draco full on the mouth. “Seems rather karmic to me, though,” Potter reflected, pulling back with a mischievous quirking of his brows, “that now you just can’t get enough.”

Draco curled a lip. “That is _not_ what I said.”

“But you want to do it again.”

“Not if you insist upon this smug countenance.”

Potter managed to school his features into something slightly less mirthful, even if his damn eyes still exposed his amusement. “What’s so bad about that, though, hm? I want to do it again, too, you know.”

Draco rolled onto his back and stared at the discoloured ceiling. Beside him, Potter propped himself up on one elbow. It was far easier, Draco decided, to tell a man he’d never see again that he liked pain, than to admit all the thoughts that were blending torturously in his head. But Potter’s gaze on him was steady and patient, awaiting an explanation, a conversation, a _something_ that Draco wasn’t sure he was able to give.

“I didn’t like who I was just now, with you, when we did all that," he mumbled. The words were wrong. Draco knew they were wrong as soon as they left his mouth. Merlin, why couldn’t he explain things properly?

Potter’s expression turned serious, his lips pursed in concern. “Did I overdo it with the teasing or what have you?” he asked. 

“No!” Draco exclaimed, closing his eyes and pressing a frustrated palm to his forehead. “I’m saying this all rather poorly. That was...very good, but maybe it would have been better if it hadn't happened. I…” Draco took an unsteady breath, stacking another admission atop a dangerously growing pile, “I don’t like revealing these things about myself.”

“Why not?” Potter urged. “I’d never tell anyone, and if we both like it, what’s the harm?”

“Because they can’t be unsaid!” Draco bristled. “Now that I've told you I like those things, it’s out there. I can’t take these frankly _disturbing_ confessions back and you’ll know them forever! It’s...humiliating and...it feels unsafe.”

“Draco,” Potter said carefully, reaching out a hand to settle on Draco’s chest. “I’d never use those things against you, not in ways you didn’t like. Felt pretty chuffed that you told me at all, really. Chuffed and impressed. Takes guts to say those things out loud, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Draco muttered unhappily. 

“Well, I do,” Potter decided. “And I meant what I said. I’ll give it as long as you want it. I think we have something here, don’t you?”

“I don’t date," Draco said at once, blotting out the hopeful nonsense Potter was spouting. "I don’t take serious lovers. I’ll not upset the equilibrium of my life. I spend entirely too much time thinking about you as it is.”

Harry lit up at the words, his open face broad and smiling at the sentiment. Ergh, this was exactly why Draco tried to avoid this sort of situation: the expectations were too _threatening_ somehow and far too easily toppled by Draco’s recalcitrance. 

“Oh leave off, Potter, don’t get any damn ideas,” Draco scolded.

“I’ll not force you to go forward,” Potter said carefully. “But I’d like it if we did. You know, if we could just keep seeing each other, find out what happens. And I think you might like it, too.”

“Yes, but for how long?” Draco knew his voice sounded too high and tinny, he felt panic rising and he didn’t know if he wanted Potter to push him from the bed or draw him impossibly near. “When your wife shows up again—”

“Ginny and I are done,” Potter interrupted, with a striking amount of certainty. “She had her reasons for walking out. I’m sure I contributed plenty to many of them—I was hardly a perfect husband—but...I won’t go through that again.”

“You say that now, but it’s been only months—”

“I’m not the cleverest bloke,” Potter spoke over Draco’s plaintive excuses. “But I know my own mind, and I’d thank you not to assume I don’t. I’ve never seen my magic respond the way it does to you. It means something, Draco, I know it does. And I fancy you, don't I? I like it when you're around. And we’re pretty alright together, aren’t we? Those few days, with the kids, it just...worked. Seeing you with them, the way you manage everything...us together, it’s not totally unthinkable is it? I’m not naïve. I’m perfectly aware we have no way of knowing how this thing between us might turn out, and I’m not asking to rush into any promises but I think we owe it to ourselves to follow this thing where it leads. If I thought you felt differently, I’d let it go, but—”

“Of course I don’t,” Draco grumbled bitterly. “I can’t keep myself away, can I?”

“Don’t sound too thrilled about it,” Potter teased gently, shifting nearer. Draco hated how his body registered the closeness only with relief. 

“The bedroom business is new to you,” Draco pointed out. “This...whatever-it-is is new to me. You’ll need to be patient.”

“I can do that,” Potter agreed quietly. 

“Kiss me, would you?” Draco muttered. He really didn’t want to talk anymore. 

“Will you stay the night?” Potter asked instead. “Do you have to get home?”

Draco shook his head. “I inferred I would be gathering herbs at certain hours and that I would return in the morning. Scorpius’ Aunt Daphne was happy enough to spend the night.”

“You’ll stay then?”

Draco bit his lip. It would be easy enough to leave, better probably, to pull this all up the roots and let it wither and fade, only...he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay in this ugly eclectic spare room with Potter beside him, close enough to touch.

“Yes, Pot—Harry. I’ll stay.”

Harry shifted, covering Draco’s body with his own and slotting their mouths together with practiced ease. This thing between them, it did mean something, and Merlin, Draco hated when Harry was right. 

_**/// ///** _

Potter was abhorrently affectionate. Before they went to sleep, they rose to shower, and have a final cup of tea. The last of Potter’s awkwardness seemed to have drained away. He seemed comfortable in his skin, and just as comfortable laying claim to Draco’s with endless little touches. Draco didn’t want to get used to this. 

“Cut it out,” he ordered as Potter skirted a hand along Draco’s hip en route to the kettle. 

Potter paused, looking surprised. “Sorry,” he replied, jerking his hand back. “I didn’t realise it would bother you.” Dammit if the man didn’t sound hurt. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Draco huffed, feeling infuriatingly inarticulate. 

“Right.” Potter drew the sound out, casting doubt. “Because it seemed like it bothered you.”

“I just don’t want it to become a habit,” Draco clipped. “Especially around the children.”

Potter’s exasperating face split into another affable grin. “Why do you think I’m doing it so much _now_? Because I won’t get to when the kids are underfoot. But I’ll stop if you really don’t like being touched or what have you.”

What Draco wanted to say was, ' _Good_ ’. Forbidding Potter from all this nonsense outside of the bedroom would create a clear delineation, Draco reckoned. But it would also be a lie, and Draco was finding Potter a difficult man to lie to. Draco watched him pour the tea, remaining casual and patient, as though Draco’s response wouldn’t deter him either way. It seemed needlessly cruel to deny him, especially when Draco didn’t really mind. In fact he found all that contact maddeningly reassuring. Draco didn’t wish to need reassurance. He was quite put out to discover this impulse inside him. 

“It’s fine,” he heard himself say. Potter’s smile brightened. 

“You sure?”

Curse the man. “I said it was, didn’t I?

Potter laughed as his hands settled just above Draco’s hipbones. “Merlin, are you always this prickly after pulling?” he teased, pressing his lips to Draco’s temple. 

“Shut it, Potter,” Draco growled. 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry agreed, and kissed him. 

**_/// ///_ **

Morning was a quiet affair with tea and toast and Harry’s tousled hair managing to look rather roguish and enticing. They’d come together a second time in the middle of the night. There’d been no fanfare that time, only the feel of Harry’s mouth on his neck and a sense of urgency as they’d brought each other off. They both knew it might be a while before they had an opportunity like this again. 

“The kids are home tomorrow,” Harry said, as Draco was gathering his things to return to the Manor. It was early yet, not quite 7, but Draco didn’t want to arouse suspicion. 

“Mm,” Draco acknowledged, gingerly rolling his shoulders. His body was a wreck today: his joints screamed from the restraint, the welts across his chest and arse and thighs were on fire. It was all rather excellent. 

“Last week before they’re back to school,” Harry remarked. 

Merlin, the summer seemed to pass more quickly with every year. “Indeed.”

“We always have a big dinner together the last Friday before school,” Harry continued. “Ron and Hermione and their two come by.”

He seemed to be implying something, Draco couldn’t think what. Draco raised his eyebrows, as if to say ‘ _why all the loathsome chitchat?_ ’

Harry gave him a rueful look, then stepped closer to straighten Draco’s collar, even though Draco knew perfectly well it didn’t require anything of the sort. Harry ducked in and kissed him. Draco allowed it. 

“Will you come?” Harry blurted out, after. 

“What?” Draco asked. 

“To dinner, on Friday. You and Scorpius.”

“Certainly not,” Draco replied, horrified. "What a perfectly daft idea."

“I know,” Harry shrugged. “Might be awful. But it’s never going to be exaxtly comfortable, is it? Maybe then if this all...becomes something more, it might not be such a shock? We could sort of get it over with. Al will inevitably beg for Scorpius to stay the night. We can agree and you can go home, then slip back once I've got everyone down for the night.”

“I’ll think on it,” Draco permitted. “But we’re not taking risks, nothing where we'll be seen.”

“You think I fancy telling my two teenage sons I’ve re-evaluated my sexuality at 38?” Harry scoffed. “Believe me, I’m hoping to postpone that conversation for a good while yet.”

“Fine. So long as we have an understanding on the matter. I’ll consider it. No promises.”

“Thank you. I want you here, you know,” Harry said simply. “However I can get you.”

Draco kissed him to avoid a failed attempt at a coherent response. Potter was far too liberal with sentiment. Draco dearly hoped he wouldn’t be expected to reciprocate in quite the same manner. 

Draco transfigured one of the empty grocery bags to look like his collection kit so Daphne wouldn’t ask questions. 

“Alright,” Harry said, kissing him one last time. “Have a good week, yeah, babe?”

Draco only nodded, swallowing hard. He stepped into the fireplace, and with two words, was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading along and for all your incredibly thoughtful comments. I absolutely love hearing from you, every single time!!! 
> 
> Extra double thanks to my gracious beta MimbelWimbel for her literal hours of unpaid labour!


	21. Twenty One - Harry

Teddy and the rest of Harry’s lot shot out of the fireplace with a great deal of shoving and whinging. Harry was hardly surprised. The kids loved spending time with Molly, but it was always too many sweets and not enough sleep and too much of a shift in their normal routine. Remy was screaming in Teddy’s arms. Harry took the baby, while managing to plant affectionate kisses on Al’s and Lily’s heads before they escaped. Jamie evaded Harry altogether, stomping off to his room. Harry sighed: back to business as usual, then. 

He tutted at the red-faced, red-haired Remy. “There, now, sweetpea, what’s got you all fussed?” He doubted that Molly would send the baby home hungry. Harry checked his watch. It was nap time. That would certainly do it. 

“Thanks a million, Ted,” Harry said over the squalling. “Did it go okay?”

Teddy waved him off. “Later,” he promised. Even Teddy looked tired, strands of long hair having fallen loose from his bun. Nevertheless, he gave Harry a weak smile. “We’re fine. Everyone’s just a bit stirred up, you know how it is.”

Harry nodded his understanding and carted Remy off to his cot.

**_/// ///_ **

“I’ve got it handled, love, truly,” Harry said gratefully as Teddy helped prepare dinner. Remy was kicking happily on his playmat near the table. “You looked like you’ve had a bit of a week.”

Harry had barely seen his children all afternoon. Al was sprawled in the back garden staring into the sky. When Harry had asked the boy what he was up to, Al had said only 'Meditation,' and refused to offer any further explanation. Lily was deep into some make-believe, he could hear her little voice chirping away behind her closed door. The boys had grown out of that stage quite a bit earlier, but Lily seemed less in a hurry to let it go. Her stuffed toys were a captivated audience, clearly. Jamie hadn’t emerged from his lair at all. 

“I had a lie down,” Teddy assured him. “I’m fine. And it was a nice week, Harry, stop worrying. Molly was over the moon to see the kids. Percy’s high strung as ever, but Ralph adores him, and he's so soothing and attentive. Their two are old enough now to find Lily precious instead of annoying, and Mols was even giving Jamie Quidditch tips...at least while he was still speaking to all of us.”

Harry sighed, passing Teddy a large bowl for the salad. “No idea what happened? I thought I’d finally gotten through to him.”

“I wish I knew,” Teddy replied, voice somber. “I hate to see him like this. I’ve not got a clue what set him off. Day by day he just retreated more and more. It’s hard on all of them, Ginny’s being gone, but Al and Lily have taken it more in stride, somehow.”

Harry swallowed hard, not ready to share Al’s strategy for dealing with his hurt, but Merlin, his heart broke for his eldest son daily. “Poor Jamie,” he murmured. “I’ll talk to him. But how about you? I hope you don’t feel like I carted you off along with the children. You know how Molly is, she doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“It was lovely, Harry, honest. A bit of noise and fury , you know, absolute chaos, but it’s family, right? And Molly needed the help. She’s getting older after all.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, wincing at the thought. “I wish I could immortalise that woman.”

“Don’t we all,” Teddy smiled. “How were things here? You look good. Rested. Showered, even.”

“Ha, very funny.”

“Really, though, doing better?”

“Feeling human, yeah,” Harry acknowledged. The euphoria from his night with Draco had transformed into anxiety again. It had felt so right when Draco was here, in the house, but the second he left, Harry’s confidence had wavered. It was easy to feel sure when he could reach out and touch Draco, when he could kiss him, get that instant reassurance. But he’d not heard from the man since he left. That was hardly surprising, Harry knew. What had he been expecting? An owl with a ‘thanks for the shag’ note? The notion was ridiculous. Nevertheless, it left room for Harry’s pervasive, dubious doubts: Had he pushed too hard? Asked for too much? Harry knew he dove into things, of course he did, but surely Draco was more measured, more careful. And it was ludicrous, wasn’t it? For Harry to be pursuing romance with his kids as miserable as they were; it was pure selfishness.

Teddy’s discerning gaze was on his face. They were the same light brown colour as his late father’s today, and it made Harry miss the steady, wise man with a sudden, fierce wave of sorrow. “House looks good,” was all Teddy said, however. 

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged. “Won’t last. But got the bills paid and sorted through at least half my correspondence.”

Another thing he didn’t mention was the letter currently unfolded on the desk in his study, the Hogwarts crest embossed in the top corner and Headmistress Clearwater’s signature on the bottom. Percy’s old flame had been running the school for a few years now, and kept a tight ship, from what Harry had heard. Or, at least Hermione approved, which was really the standard by which Harry judged most things. Draco hadn’t been exaggerating about the offer. It was generous, incredibly so: an income nearly double his current one, free childcare for Remy during the days and afterschool care for Lily at the Hogsmeade primary school, as well as a little cottage in the village where the three of them could live during the fall and winter terms. 

Maybe Harry was being selfish again. Would it be better for his family if he just accepted the damn thing? But what kind of parent could he be if he was burdened with all those too-potent memories day after day, the bloody battle and all the fallen still lingering in every corridor? Besides, taking the position would throw a spanner in the works of the whatever-it-was Harry was pursuing with Draco—not that Harry should even be prioritizing that right now. Silently, he berated himself. 

“You alright?” Teddy questioned, his voice tinged with concern. 

“When did you get so old and sage, hm?” Harry chided with a small but earnest grin. He squeezed Teddy’s shoulder affectionately. “I am, love, or I soon will be, don’t fret. Decisions to be made, is all. I want to do right by you, by the kids.”

“You already have, Harry. You are.”

Harry gave his godson a wink in an effort to disguise the tender feelings coursing through him. He took the porkchops off the stove. They didn’t smell half bad, really. 

**_/// ///_ **

Jamie didn’t emerge for dinner. Harry passed the baby off to Teddy, feeling guilty for relying on the young man as much as he had been, and descended the stairs. He rarely came down here, trying to allow Jamie his privacy, but Harry felt he had real cause for concern, even at his surliest, the boy was loath to miss a meal. He knocked on the closed door. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, setting his pitch warm and low, “may I come in?”

A silence followed, then an over-loud “No!”

Harry sighed. He supposed he should have expected that. He tried the door handle. It was locked, of course. Harry didn’t think twice about using his magic to _Alohomora_ it open. 

Jamie’s room was dank, stinking of teenager, unwashed sheets and not enough airflow. The boy himself was sprawled face down on his rumpled comforter. A poster of the Harpies—Ginny’s favourite team and a dream Harry wondered if she wished she’d pursued—had been torn down and was shredded into pieces on Jamie’s desk.

Harry sat gingerly on the side of his son's bed. He reached out, placing his palm between Jamie’s shoulder blades, fully expecting to be shrugged off. The gesture didn’t come. 

“I said no,” Jamie whinged, his voice muffled by the duvet. 

“I know,” Harry acknowledged. He ran his hand down the boy's back, soothingly. “I’m sorry. I do like to give you your privacy, but you’ve got us all worried, love.”

“Shove off, Dad,” Jamie growled, but he didn’t move away. Harry shifted, carding his fingers through Jamie’s hair, so familiar, so like Harry’s own. 

“Did something happen?” Harry prompted. 

“No,” Jamie sniffled. “Not really.”

“Did you fight with your brother?”

“No.”

“Was your uncle getting on your nerves?”

“Not more than usual,” Jamie muttered, rolling over, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks indrawn, as though tonight’s supper wasn’t the first meal he’d missed. “He really is a bossy git, though," Jamie sniffed.

Harry gave a light chuckle, still stroking Jamie’s hair. “Always has been.” Jamie leaned into the touch.

“Uncle Ralph says it’s because he cares so much.”

“I suspect he’s right. Percy loves his family, he wants everything just so for them.”

Jamie swallowed. “Yeah. I just think he was hoping...same as me.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind.” Jamie’s voice was small and brittle. 

Harry didn’t press or cajole. He waited, frayed by the dearth of words between them. He gave Jamie’s shoulder a final squeeze and stood. 

“Wait,” Jamie whispered. He sat up then, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Harry perched on the side of the bed without speaking, not wanting to interrupt this tenuous trust his son was extending. Jamie chewed his lip for a minute, his cheeks colouring with an emotion Harry couldn’t place, not yet. “I thought it was you,” he said, finally. He looked down, his front teeth once again spearing his lip so hard it turned white around the indentation. 

“Thought what was me?” Harry inquired kindly, nonplussed. 

“That she was mad at.”

“Your mother?” Harry clarified, starting to understand. 

Jamie nodded, still not meeting Harry’s eyes. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice thick. Harry suspected the boy was trying not to cry. “I was keeping track of, you know, all the things you did that might have run her off, everything you do that drives me mental. That’s a bit shit, I know, and maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought there must be a reason and the reason must be how you don’t always listen when people say things the first time round, or your always trying to be, like, pleasant all the time even when no one’s in the mood for pleasant. So I...I guess I hoped it was maybe one of those.”

“It could well be,” Harry pointed out, trying not to dwell on that short, brutal list that cut to the centre of so many of his failings as a partner. Jamie gave a violent shake of his head. 

“No,” he argued. “If it was just you, she would have shown up this week. She would have come to see us, to explain. We were all waiting, I think, though nobody would admit it. But she didn’t. So it’s not just you she’s done with, it’s all of us.”

“Oh, my love,” Harry breathed. 

“And I just wanted her to come, I just wanted her to tell us what we did so we could fix it, so she would come home. I know I can be an arse. I know I pick fights with Al and I don’t help with the baby, but I’d try harder,” Jamie’s tears got the better of him now, and they were falling fast and hot, streaming down his sunken cheeks. 

Harry gathered him in, kissing the boy’s hair and muttering reassurances. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I'm so bloody sorry you’re feeling all this, what a terrible burden. I wish I had answers for you, Jamie, I really do, but please believe this isn’t your fault, any of it.”

“How do you know?” Jamie demanded, his face pressed into Harry’s shoulder. 

“Because no one who was wholly well would walk away from you. Or your brothers or sister. So I have to believe something is off with your mother, that she is dealing with something we can't understand. But whatever it is has to do with _her_. Not with you, never with you.”

For a long while, Jamie didn’t say anything, he simply wept, clinging tightly to Harry’s T-shirt. 

“I don’t want to go back,” Jamie whispered, once he’d managed to rein himself in a bit. “Dad, please don’t make me go back.”

“To your Granny’s?” Harry asked, confused. 

Jamie pulled back, swiping at his eyes and nose with the back of his arm. “No,” he muttered, “to school.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, “What do you mean? You love school. You’ve so much to look forward to: Quidditch and all your friends and assisting Professor Malfoy…”

“Because,” Jamie said, the words catching in his throat. 

“What?” Harry coaxed. “If you can’t tell me, I can’t make it better, and I very much want to make it better. Is someone giving you a hard time? Are you struggling in one of your classes?”

“‘Course not,” Jamie sniffed again, loudly. He looked so miserable that Harry could barely stand it. It made him want to fall into a million pieces. 

“Then it can’t be so bad, hm?” Harry said, chucking his son gently on the chin. 

There was no playfulness in Jamie’s voice when he finally looked up, his green eyes catching those of his father. 

“Because I’m scared we'll get off the train when it’s time to come home and you’ll not be waiting there for me.”

Harry felt the words like an uppercut, jarring and brutal and leaving him breathless. 

“Never,” he swore. “Jamie, you and your siblings are the most important thing in this world to me, and I will never, ever leave you, you understand?”

“Yeah, well wasn’t Mum supposed to feel the same way? She wasn’t supposed to leave either, but she bloody well did!”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Harry blurted out the question before he could stop and consider it. His need to soothe his child overshadowed all rational considerations. 

“What do you mean?” Jamie asked, confused. His voice was still muted with congestion, and Harry wanted to hug the boy forever and never stop. He did, though, at least he pulled back enough to explain himself, a hand still on Jamie’s shoulder for comfort. 

As Harry struggled to find what he wanted to say next, the thoughtlessness of his question weighed on him. Jamie was still a boy. Harry should have brought this to Ron and Hermione, not his son. What if it didn’t work out? What if he got Jamie’s hopes up only to dash them? Maybe the position had been extended to someone else by now, or maybe Harry’s hesitations were warranted. What if all the wartime memories and the lancing guilt really were more than he could bear and his first day in the castle left him overcome? Harry tossed the anxiety aside. If Jamie wanted him there, he would be there, full stop.

“Headmistress Clearwater has extended me an offer. To teach. It would mean Lily and Remy and I moving to Hogsmeade, and Merlin knows you and Al would grow sick of me being there all the time, having to endure me as your professor, and waiting for me to inevitably slip up and call you sweetheart in front of your friends. But you’d see me every day, could come visit Lily and the baby on Hogsmeade’s weekends and holidays, and I could come to your games. It would be a big change and it’s not on your shoulders to decide, of course; we’d need to talk about it as a family, but it’s an option, something we can discuss…if that would make things better? Or maybe not, I don’t know—”

“Are you...thinking about accepting it?” Jamie questioned carefully. He was biting his lip again, his dark eyebrows furrowed.

“I wasn’t, not with any seriousness. There’s a lot of memories there and if I stay on as an Auror I have a few more months off to be with Remy. But if you’d rather I was at Hogwarts, I’d go in a heartbeat, love, truly.”

Jamie chewed on his lip a while longer, considering. “Well. That might be...alright. Maybe, you know. Could be worse,” he admitted, attempting a casual shrug, his fingers fiddling with his duvet cover, tracing the stripes of the grey and navy plaid. When he looked up, however, his green eyes contained a spark of hope. Harry knew his son. Jamie’s pride might forbid him from outright asking, but Harry could tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jamie wanted him to—maybe needed him to—return to Hogwarts. 

**_/// ///_ **

A couple of days later, Harry found himself in Headmistress Clearwater’s office. The room was refreshed: the large wooden desk was polished and displayed framed photos of the Headmistress smiling with whom Harry assumed to be her family, denoting a life outside work. The portraits of the previous Headmasters and -mistresses which lined the entrance were mysteriously vacant. Fawkes’ perch was gone and the many cluttered tables were, too, replaced with several neat bookcases harbouring not a speck of dust. Despite the changes, the room felt overwhelmingly familiar. Harry imagined the sound of Dumbledore clearing his throat and saying something inscrutable, the creak of that old chair. It made Harry want to turn tail and run to save himself being devoured alive by memories. 

He wouldn’t though, not with the way Jamie had been sticking by his side in a way he hadn’t done even in childhood. Ever since their talk, there was a nervous edge to his son, as though Harry would flee if Jamie let him out of his sight for too long. The behaviour was so unlike the cocksure, fearless boy Harry had sent off to Hogwarts only a year prior. Harry would eat and breathe memories if it meant unearthing Jamie’s past brash brilliance, if only in part. 

Harry felt terribly alone in all this. He wanted to discuss his concerns, wanted some calm words of reassurance that Jamie would come through this. He wanted, Harry realised with a frustrated, uncomfortable feeling, to talk it over with Draco. He craved the cleverness and insight and certainty with which Draco seemed to identify the issue at the heart of any matter and formulate a streamlined response. But now Harry had gone and made a decision that would risk his ever getting to ask that of the other man again. 

Harry had discussed his taking up at Hogwarts with his children the previous morning. Al hadn’t been particularly keen, but he’d not outright rejected the idea, either. “If Scorpius can bear his father being his professor, I suppose I can, too,” he’d shrugged. “We’re not selling the house, are we?”

The suggestion had sent Lily into a weeping fit, her first of several, which was only quelled when Harry assured them they would spend major holidays and summers at Eiderdown End, and much would continue as it was. At bedtime, however, Lily had put on a brave face, her chin only wobbling a little. “I guess it’s okay, Daddy,” she’d said. “If it means I get to go to the Quidditch games and you promise to buy me loads at Honeydukes. It’s a bit like an adventure, isn’t it? I’m already ten and I’ve never had a proper one.” Harry had hugged her and called her the most courageous girl in the world. After a chapter of Godiva Goodstrides, Lily had at last gone to sleep, dry-eyed. 

Teddy had been the most enthusiastic. He’d whooped in excitement, leaping to his feet. “Excellent, Harry,” he’d said, again and again. “A change, a challenge, excellent, really excellent. It’s perfect.”

Harry himself was significantly less convinced. Indeed, the unflagging humdrum of his office life seemed almost enviable now, when compared to this vast unknown. Harry could handle his own children, certainly, but a whole class worth? Fourteen classes worth? How did he make them listen? How did he reprimand them for speaking out of turn? How did one even begin to formulate a lesson plan?

“Harry! Merlin, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting! Just overseeing some landscaping upgrades down near the lake, you know how it is!” Headmistress Clearwater’s bright voice startled Harry from his mounting anxieties. He twitched and turned to face the witch. It had only been a matter of months since they’d last met, at the twentieth anniversary memorial. Her hair, which she had worn long as a girl, was cut into a curly brown bob. She had apple cheeks, flushed pink over her tanned skin, and a rather boxy frame. She moved gracefully, as though gliding across a frozen pond. She was in her early forties, Harry calculated, and had been quite a young appointee when she’d taken over from McGonagall’s successor a few years back.

“Headmistress,” Harry said. 

The woman laughed, a crystalline tinkling laugh. She’d unwound a bit since their time at school, but parenthood had a way of doing that to a person, Harry knew. “Oh honestly, Harry, you’re not a student. It’s Penelope, please!”

Harry blushed. Of course, he was a damn adult now, wasn’t he? It was just being in this room that so unsettled him. He forced a chuckle. “Takes me back, this place,” he offered by way of excuse. Penelope gave him a brief hug, then stepped back still holding his arms. 

“I’m sure it does,” she acknowledged conspiratorially. She jerked her head towards the empty portrait frames. “I told the lot of them to take a walk on threat of burning,” she winked. “I’ll not have you spooked now, not when this is closest we’ve come to getting you on staff in fifteen years.”

Harry gave a wan smile. 

“Well, anyway, listen to me, talk talk talk. Sit down, sit down!” She motioned him over, not to her desk but to a couple of plush armchairs upholstered in a rich floral pattern. “Shall I ring for tea?”

Harry shook his head, “Er, no thanks. Just here to, ah, take the job, I guess. Sign the paperwork or what have you.”

Penelope laughed that contagious tinkling laugh again. “You don’t exactly drive a hard bargain, do you?”

Harry stared at her blankly. 

“I was expecting a level of negotiations,” she explained. “Since you’ve turned us down so many times in the past.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, feeling stupid. “But the offer was...good. Income, housing, childcare, vacation time and no expectation of Head of House responsibilities. That about covers it, doesn’t it?”

“You won’t hear me complaining!” Penelope pronounced. “The Board will be elated!”

“About that,” Harry hazarded. “Do you mind keeping this between us? Just until I’ve had the time to tell my friends and family.”

“Yes, certainly. I’ll tell them I’ve secured a candidate, but I’ll not spoil the secret until Sunday, how’s that? Gives you a few days to spread the good news?”

“That should work, yeah. And I understand you like off-campus faculty to be geographically close, should the Floo system become compromised, but I might be back and forth the first few weekends until Lily, the baby and I are settled.”

“Of course, of course,” Penelope agreed warmly, squeezing Harry’s arm. “And I can put ears out for work for Ginny. We might even have something here, she’s been in administration, hasn’t she?”

“Oh!” Harry blurted out, his face flushed scarlet. He felt sweat pooling between his shoulder blades. He’d assumed it was old news by now, this heavy shame, that it would have made the gossip columns months ago. Then again, no one knew, not outside the Weasleys and Draco, so perhaps word of the whole painful mess had managed to remain under wraps. “Uh, that won’t be necessary,” he muttered. “We’ve separated, Gin and I.” His right hand flew unthinkingly to his left finger, and Penelope’s eyes followed the gesture. “So it will just be Lily, Remy and I moving in.”

“Oh,” the headmistress remarked. “Oh, I see. And...forgive me for asking, but I’d hate to perpetrate any family strife, so for transparency’s sake, she doesn’t mind you relocating the children?”

“No,” Harry replied bleakly, offering no further information, “she doesn’t.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear it, Harry.” Penelope’s voice was kind, but not full of pity like Harry expected. It had lost its note of bubbling enthusiasm, however. “These things are never easy. How are the kids taking it?”

Harry exhaled. “Not well,” he admitted. “Ginny just...well. It doesn’t matter. But it’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about, actually. I know mental wellness and all that wasn’t much talked about when we were at school, but—”

“Oh, that’s quite changed under my watch,” Penelope assured him. “My daughter Jerica—”she motioned to one of the framed photos behind her, where two girls grinned brightly with their mother’s smile “she’s on the right there, with the curls, researching ancient artifacts in the Americas now, if you would believe it—well, she went through it when she was about James’ age. You wouldn’t have known. Such a bright light, seemed unsinkable, but one night she came to her father and me and admitted that wasn’t the case at all. Well, she’d had us all fooled. Of course Carl and I were overly-focused on our careers at the time, and my mother had passed, and she’d been so good to the girls. Anyway, I thank my stars every day and night she said something. We got her sorted, mind healers and all that, but it felt very touch-and-go for a while. You’ve no idea what a relief it is for me to see her flourishing. 

“So you can understand I take this sort of thing very seriously,” Penelope continued earnestly. “We’ve two counselors on staff—not full on mind healers, they don’t deal with potions—but they will refer on if needed. I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to the boys. And I’ll ask if they know anyone local for Lily and yourself, if you like.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Penelope was so frank, so open, that he was left a bit stunned. Oh, he’d been through it after the war, but it hadn’t felt quite normal back then, like something he’d had to get through to move on with his life. Penelope made it sound really quite ordinary. 

“That would be...good,” Harry agreed, gratefully. 

“Excellent!” Penelope announced, clasping her hands together. “Well, then let’s make this whole thing official, shall we?”

_**/// ///** _

Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm, then took the Floo from Hogwarts to the Leaky Cauldron. He checked his watch. Remy would still be napping for another hour. Teddy could keep an eye on the other three until then. Harry leaned against a wall, debating his next steps. If he’d not been at risk of being overheard, he might have gone straight to Malfoy Manor, to admit to Draco that he’d bollocksed everything up tremendously. Even now, he wanted to. But who was to say the Malfoy wards would even grant him access? He knew Malfoy wouldn’t approve of his simply stopping by. But Teddy was leaving to travel with friends tomorrow before returning to uni, and Harry wouldn’t have anyone to watch the children, and then it would be Friday and Draco may or may not be showing up at Harry’s house, and he’d be furious to learn alongside Ron and Hermione of Harry’s complete reversal of plans. 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. He had no idea the etiquette of this situation. Walking to the fireplace, he tossed in a handful of Floo powder and stepped inside. “Malfoy Manor,” he said. 

**_/// ///_ **

The first thing Harry saw as he stumbled out of the flames was a rug, richly embroidered with green and gold serpents. Dropping the Disillusionment Charm, he looked up. It was a mistake. There, restored to its former garish glory, was the crystal chandelier. Harry felt ill: There was a roiling sensation deep in his chest which left him unsettled in the worst way. The overbearing marble fireplace was at his back and the walls were that same deep aubergine as they’d been that fateful Easter weekend. Harry could remember the scrambled, stinging mess of his face, the cold spear of dread, Hermione’s screams, the slick, wet sound of Dobby’s flesh parting under Bellatrix’s blade. 

Harry’s breaths came shallow now. Maybe he’d lied. Maybe he was still too affected by these things. Perhaps agreeing to return to Hogwarts was the worst decision of his life. He was vaguely aware of a sweet, clear chime ringing throughout the room, proclaiming his arrival, but Harry was a step away from running straight back to the school to beg Headmistress Clearwater to release him from the contract. 

“Harry?” 

The sound of his name made Harry jerk his head to one side. Scorpius was there, blond hair shining in the light of the fire. Harry narrowed his vision onto the small boy, dissimilar enough from his father to ground Harry in the present. He went to step off the rug, only to realise he couldn’t. His foot rebounded as if having connected with an invisible wall. 

“Sorry,” Scorpius said with a wince. “Only Dad can take down the wards. He’ll be here eventually. Even in his study he can hear the alarm, but sometimes it takes him a minute if he is at a finicky part of a potion.”

As if summoned, Draco swept in from a corridor. “Scorpius, what have I said about answering the Floo—Potter!” He stared, obviously not expecting or welcoming the intrusion.

Harry gave a rough approximation of a grin. “Er, hi,” he muttered. 

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy demanded. 

“Bit of a trip down memory lane, hm?” Harry commented, evading the question. It was a stupid thing to say, not what he was here about at all, but his head was swimming and he felt sick and strange. He attempted a weak smile but the muscles in his face were somehow sluggish and unresponsive. 

Draco’s face drew a shade paler. 

“What?” Scorpius inquired, voice bright with curiosity. “Father, what is? _What’s_ a trip down memory lane?”

“The war,” Draco said simply. His eyes were emotionless, fixed on Harry. 

“What about the war?” Scorpius urged.

“You knew it was me,” Harry stated. He felt stuck in two places at once, part of him rooted in the past, part of him struggling to keep afloat in the present. He’d never given that moment much thought, it was just another nightmare in a heap of terrors that Harry had cast aside from those brutal months: Draco’s pale terrified face, his refusal to identify Harry with any certainty. “You must have.”

Draco huffed out a quiet scoff. “Of course I did. I’d know you anywhere, even then. Especially then.”

“You tried to protect me,” Harry realised. The truth felt monumental. Draco would have been praised and exalted for his knowledge, for delivering Harry, helpless, at the feet of Voldemort. And yet he’d turned away. He’d lied to those he felt the most beholden, and had his deceit been exposed, he would have suffered greatly for it. It was a moment of terrible courage.

“Bloody lot of good it did,” Draco murmured bitterly. 

“What’re you talking about?” Scorpius entreated. Harry and Draco ignored him. 

“You did though,” Harry pressed. “We’d not have made it through that night if you’d given us away. We’d have been killed within minutes.”

Scorpius’ excitement turned to concern. “Daddy, what does he mean? What do you mean, Harry?”

“Don’t glorify me,” Draco hissed. “I was protecting myself, nothing more. The torture, the bloodshed, I couldn’t bear it, not once it was real, visceral, inescapable. I hadn’t the stomach for it, not like my parents. Even in that, I was a coward—”

“You were a frightened child,” Harry countered. He was coming back to himself again. “We all were.”

“What—” Scorpius attempted.

“Scorpius, please,” Draco implored. “Mr. Potter and I need a moment to discuss matters. Up to your room now, son. I’ll not hide any war stories from you, I never do, you know that, only it has to wait.”

Scorpius’ pinched little expression made it clear he intended to argue. 

“Now, Scorpius,” Draco repeated sternly. The boy scampered off with a final huff. Draco turned his gaze back upon Harry. “I suppose you’re not here simply to reminisce?” 

“No,” Harry agreed grimly. 

“We’ll take this somewhere else,” Draco decided. He turned smartly on his heels, leading Harry out of the dark-walled drawing room down a wide corridor and into a space much more bright and cavernous. He shut the large doors firmly behind them. It was a library, Harry saw at once, with vast walls of books, and summer sunlight casting grids of shadows on the floor as it cascaded through large arched windows onto honey-coloured hardwood floors.

Harry leaned against a table with his arms crossed over his chest. He was glad to be out of the drawing room, but he was still a bit disconcerted from the onslaught of memories. He swallowed hard, trying to put them aside, but Draco’s eyes were on him, and they caught the gesture. 

“I can’t imagine this is comfortable for you, seeing the Manor again,” Draco acknowledged. “Funny how twenty years can telescope into nothing under certain circumstances.”

Harry appreciated the offer of understanding. “Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “That’s how it goes, sometimes, isn’t it? I guess I thought you might have changed it up a bit since then.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Draco granted. “And I really ought to have those hideous walls painted. This house is still a bloody mausoleum, I know it.”

“Why don’t you?” Harry asked. 

Draco shrugged. “It’s...something I do. Penance maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I keep it the same. So I have to remember—or maybe so I can’t forget.”

“Merlin, Draco,” Harry said, horrified. “Surely that’s not necessary?”

“Perhaps not,” Draco admitted, glancing towards the window. He kept his head held high, but Harry could still interpret traces of shame in the clench of Draco’s jaw and the unhappy line of his mouth. The silence between the two men grew.

Finally, Draco seemed to put aside his tumultuous thoughts and he returned his gaze to Harry’s face. “Well, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” Draco asked finally. 

Harry regarded Draco in return. His hand jerked forward, as if to touch the other man’s cheek, to press their lips together, to take all he could get before Draco snapped it away forever. Harry aborted the gesture halfway through, shifting from foot to foot. Harry had made the decision to accept the professorship, and it was the right one. He’d bear the consequences even if he didn’t like them. 

“I’ve done something,” he admitted. “You’ll not be happy.”

“Oh?” Draco prompted. He stood, unmoving: a solid counterbalance to Harry’s jangling nerves.

“I’ve taken the position. At Hogwarts.”

Draco didn’t respond, his icy eyes only skimmed Harry’s face, assessingly. 

“I’ll understand if you’re displeased,” Harry granted. “I know we wanted to keep our distance.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and then yanked them out again, and crossed his arms before dropping them uselessly at his sides. 

For another moment, he was met with nothing but Draco’s silence. Then, Draco gave a long-suffering sigh. “You never make anything easy, do you, Potter? Stop squirming, it’s unbecoming. Sit down. I’ll get us some tea.”

It was easy to obey Draco, almost calming. Maybe this is what Harry had come here for: Drac’s ability to unknot a crisis with clarity and grace. Harry slipped into an unforgiving ladderback chair and clasped his hands on the table’s surface. He squinted and skimmed the spines of books from where he sat, but much of what he saw was Latin. He imagined Draco sitting here late into the evening, a section of blond hair falling onto his forehead while he flipped through pages, hunting for knowledge.

Draco returned a few minutes later with a pewter tea tray. It looked very old, and odd against the modern lines of Draco’s trousers and smart dress shirt. Draco took his time pouring the Earl Grey into understated, but clearly very fine, china tea cups. Without asking, he added milk and sugar to Harry’s, and passed it over. 

“Thanks,” Harry muttered. His tongue felt thick in his mouth with the apprehension.

“Hm,” Draco acknowledged. He added a dash of milk to his own tea and sat down across from Harry. 

“Well?” Draco prompted. “What’s happened? You had me quite convinced accepting the offer was out of the question.”

“I had myself just as convinced,” Harry explained. “But since coming back from Molly’s... Well. Jamie’s been struggling.”

“How so?” There was genuine concern in Draco’s voice. It was as understated as the china, but concrete. Jamie was his student, and Harry’s son, and Draco cared about him. Harry knew he did. The knowledge ignited something soft and glowing in Harry’s core. He took a breath and summarised his talk with Jamie as best he could: how Jamie hadn’t wanted to return to school, his fears about Harry leaving him, how closely he’d clung to Harry’s side ever since.

“He’s in a bad way, even with knowing I’ll be there,” Harry said. “Maybe you think I’m coddling him, that he should learn to get through this on his own—”

“I don’t, actually,” Draco’s tone was cold, almost offended. Surprised, Harry met his eyes. “That was how I was raised,” Draco elucidated. “My every fear was dismissed, and any normal, human feelings were attributed to my own personal failings, until I knew the only person I could trust was myself. My self-reliance has taken me far, but it has almost kept my life quite small, quite contained. You’re well aware of my general distrust of others. I would not wish Scorpius to be equally suspicious, or James. A child left to solve everything on their own learns simply that: that they are alone.” 

Harry swallowed. He’d not been expecting sincerity, somehow. “Thanks,” he managed to get out. “Well. Now I’m sure he’s got some sort of abandonment complex—I could hex Ginny, I really could—and he needs me there and I have to put him first, they’re my kids, they’re my main priority—”

“Of course you do,” Draco agreed at once. “I’d never ask you to do otherwise.”

“Right,” Harry murmured, relieved. “So you understand.”

“Yes, completely.”

Harry sipped his tea in the ensuing silence. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Reassurance, maybe, or hope, that just because his plans had changed it didn’t mean he had to give up on this fragile budding thing with Draco. Harry looked across the table. Draco’s face was shuttered, giving nothing away. Harry could almost see him packing away all his vulnerabilities, all their shared intimacies. 

“Babe...” Harry murmured, knowing the suggestion of intimacy was a risk. His heart plummeted at Draco’s flinch.

“Potter, don’t,” Draco warned. “We can’t.”

Harry knew he shouldn’t push, should accept Draco’s verdict, leave his tea half drunk and be on his way. Then again, backing down from a challenge had never really been one of Harry’s strengths.

“We could, though,” he pointed out, knowing he sounded mulish and perhaps even sulky, but fuck it, that was how he felt. There was no good reason not to continue, not really. Why _should_ they stand in their own way?

“Don’t be petulant,” Draco rebuked, but his fingers were gripping the delicate handle of teacup too tightly and he wasn’t meeting Harry’s eyes. “It’s best if we keep to ourselves, if we don’t muddy our circumstances with a damn affair.”

A sudden recognition bubbled up within Harry. “You see what you’re doing, don’t you?” he asked. 

“Pardon?” Draco replied, his lips a thin line. 

Harry couldn’t help the tender half-smile that he felt blooming on his own. “All that self reliance and distrust business. I know me being at Hogwarts puts a dent in your plans to carefully cordon off every section of your life, but those were false divisions, anyway. It all bleeds over eventually. So it’s sooner than expected, but it doesn’t mean we should bin what we have.”

Draco gave a terse shake of his head. “No. You’ll tire of me or I of you, it’ll burn out, and we’ll be left facing each other every day, our children in the crossfire. It was foolish of me to ever think we could seriously—”

“Draco, stop,” Harry cut him off. He covered Draco’s free hand with his. The man didn’t pull away. “I know it’s too much too soon and seeing me everyday is more than we bargained for. But for my sake, it’s not something I can just turn off. I still want it, still want you.”

Draco stared at him. “How can you?” he demanded, voice pitched low. “You can’t step foot in my drawing room without remembering how I stood by, how I stood silently by while they mutilated Granger, how I led that goblin to slaughter…” Draco’s words increased in pitch as he continued, sounding nearly frantic. “I’ve never even apologised for my complicity and all the cruelty that came before. Most would think it’s pride, but it’s hardly that. An apology, it’s utterly insufficient, isn’t it? It’s feeble and paltry compared to the enormity of my crimes. And in my selfishness, I expected you to just forget? To put that all aside and take me to your bed. I’m sorry, Potter, Merlin, I’m so sorry. Every time I think I’m somehow worthy of redemption, my true nature becomes starkly apparent.”

Harry felt Draco slipping away and he couldn’t stand it. He sprung to his feet with frustrated, nervous energy and stepped around the table. Draco looked up at him, a series of tumultuous emotions playing over his face.

“Oh, would you just come here, already?” Harry grumbled. 

Draco scrutinised him, those pale eyes mournful and uncertain. Nevertheless, he rose, coming to stand within arm’s reach. 

Harry let his hands find Draco’s waist, relieved when the other man didn’t retreat. “I was just taken off guard, that’s all,” Harry murmured, leaning in, seeking Draco’s skin with his lips. Draco made a small, needy sound that he tried to mask with an exhale. “In all my heaps of unpleasant memories, that one hadn’t surfaced in a while. I’ll adjust, I’ll be fine next time, promise.”

Draco gave a tense, humourless laugh. “That’s hardly the issue.”

“Then what is?” Harry asked. “You want my forgiveness? You have it. You’re not that scared boy any more, Draco, not some lost pawn thrust into an unconscionable war, and neither am I. Why don’t we deserve this if we want it? Pursuing a bit of happiness? Surely our rotten childhoods earned us this chance.”

“What are you saying?” Draco rasped, his eyes fluttering closed. Harry mouthed coaxing kisses along Draco’s neck. 

“You’re who I wanted to see,” Harry whispered, pulling back only far enough to get the words out. “When I realised Jamie was falling apart. You’re who I wanted to tell when I signed that contract at the school. I think of you a hundred times a day. You’ve become important, and...and I don’t want to lose you. Not if I don’t have to. Not because of a job or some unverifiable fear about what _might_ happen. If we don’t work, I’ll walk away, I will, just...don’t discount me yet.”

“Idiot Gryffindor,” Draco’s breath was hot on Harry’s cheek. “Must you always rush headfirst into everything without a moment’s thought?”

“Is that a yes?”

“I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to.”

“Just...not turning your back on this. Not yet.”

Harry felt cool, slender fingers cup his burning face. “Bloody hell, Harry. You really ought to just let me go.”

“I won’t though,” Harry shrugged. 

“Fine,” Draco agreed. His tone was one of exasperation, but a slight blush across those enviable cheekbones revealed something else entirely. “Since you’re determined to be stubborn about it. I suppose we can give it a go. Don’t blame me if it all ends in rubble.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry promised. He pressed into Draco’s touch. “Thank you.”

Draco let their foreheads fall together. “I suppose it’s better this way. You’re an irritatingly hard man to ignore. I rather doubt I could pull it off, even if I tried.”

Harry grinned and then, finally, _finally_ , Draco’s lips crashed into his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone! This chapter is extra long to make up for the wait!
> 
> Double thanks for all the incredibly thoughtful comments and triple thanks to my most gracious beta, MimbelWimbel for giving me so much of her holiday time. 
> 
> Happy Holidays to anyone celebrating, especially those of you who can't be with loved ones this year.


	22. Twenty-Two - Draco

“Okay, so, Teddy’s textbook talked about the marriage of word or thought and intention,” Albus was saying. He had his notebooks spread out on the great stone dining table at Malfoy Manor. Potter had dropped him off earlier that afternoon with a sweet, hesitant little smile which Draco had returned, despite himself. They’d discussed the visit that day in the library, Harry only allowing it after making Draco promise up and down he’d not scold the child or make him feel badly for what he’d done. Given the memory spell was created in an effort to help Scorpius, and sounded like quite an impressive bit of charmwork, Draco had easily agreed. 

Potter had left with an awkward wave, and Draco was now seated side-by-side with Albus at the dining room table, with Scorpius peering over his friend’s shoulder, balancing on the heavy wooden rung between the two back legs of Albus’ chair. Draco leaned in, trying to make out the unruly penmanship which was familiar to him from Albus’ various essays on potion properties over the last year. 

While Edward Lupin had been a clever, hard working student with top marks, and James a rather average one, Albus was more difficult to pin down. The quality of his homework varied drastically: from not being completed at all, to meticulously researched scrolls, often including tangential historical references that Draco himself had never come across in his readings. The subjects which captured Albus’ interest seemed far-reaching and unpredictable. He’d completed an exhaustive report on comparative anatomy and magical applications of mammal teeth, complete with sketches. Draco still remembered the marginalia next to the heading ‘Human’ in the nearly illegible script: _included for completeness. As with other human biological components, only to be used when acquired from a willing donor._ And yet a week later, when discussing rodent entrails, which seemed like a natural extension of Albus’ interests in the natural world, the boy was listless and easily distracted, whispering with Scorpius until Draco had been forced to separate them. 

“Yes, of course,” Draco acknowledged in response to Albus’ summary of introductory magical theory. 

“Of course there’s lots more to it than that,” the dark-haired boy continued, “but that was where I started. One day, right after Mum left, Dad took us all to Flourish and Blotts. I think he was trying to buy us something in hopes that it would cheer us up. Might have even worked for Lily, actually, she loves her books, and it gave me time to hunt down an English to Latin dictionary. So that’s what this is.” Albus was clearly excited and quite proud of his work. Draco could relate. When he was pleased with something he’d created, he often had the impulse to share it. Since Pansy was hardly interested in discussing academics, Draco found himself telling Neville Longbottom of all people. Draco wasn’t particularly friendly with other members of the faculty, but Longbottom’s Herbology knowledge was unrivalled, and often tied closely to Draco’s work. Draco wouldn’t call them friends—they never discussed their personal lives and Draco never had patience for small talk—but they were amiable colleagues certainly, and could often be found talking shop over the midday meal at Hogwarts. 

Draco scanned Albus’ list. It included words like snip, edit, alter, skip and prune with their Latin counterparts scrawled to the right. 

“I started with ‘snip’ because I liked the way _Partorum Portiuncula_ sounded, but then I looked it up in _An Incomplete Compendium of Known Spells_ and it turns out that spell is already used at salons. So I opted for _Praetereo_ , which is sort of like ‘skip’, ‘pass over’, ‘pass by’, that sort of thing.”

“That and I said, maybe words that felt so physical weren’t the best idea,” Scorpius inserted. “I didn’t want my brain to get sliced open or anything.”

“Very wise,” Draco agreed, relieved to hear that his son, at least, had some sense. 

“Not bad, right?” Albus urged.

“It’s certainly inventive,” Draco allowed.

Albus beamed up at him. The sight of him gave Draco pause. He’d avoided really _looking_ at either of the Potter boys since they’d started at Hogwarts. Their similarities to Harry were too uncanny to be comfortable, even though neither of them was ever quite as skinny as their father had been. They both had a bit more of their uncles’ gangliness. Albus was only just above average height, but looked taller by nature of always standing with Scorpius, who was small-statured and delicate. Albus’ eyes were more grey than green, and his hair was black. Harry’s had been too, when he was young, Draco remembered, but age had lightened it to the same dark brown that James’ was now. Despite the freckles on Albus’ cheekbones, and that grey tinge to his eyes, he was undoubtedly a Potter, Draco would have picked him out anywhere. The shape of his face, the line of his brows, even some of his mannerisms took Draco so far back it was almost painful, to when he and Harry were as close to innocent as either had ever been, given their circumstances.

“Professor?” Albus asked. 

“Sorry?” Draco startled. The child had obviously said something during Draco’s musings. 

“I was just explaining that there are two versions of the spell: _Retrosum_ and _Ante_. The first one’s for me, when I want to forget things, or Scor, if someone was trying to get him to recall past prophecies, and the second one is if you want to rush over what’s coming.”

“Pardon?” Draco prompted. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the latter.”

“You know how I get that déjà vu feeling when I feel a premonition coming on?” Scorpius answered. 

“Of course.”

“Okay, well, it gets worse and worse until the prophecy begins. And right when it does, I could do the _Praetereo Ante_ spell and it would sort of short circuit my brain, in a way. It halts the ongoing thought in its tracks and speeds my thoughts forward over the next minute or so. That way I can’t say the prophecy and I can’t remember it, either, so no one else can get it out of me. It’s not a perfect fix, like it doesn’t mean I can come off my medicine, because I get too many episodes and it doesn’t turn them off, exactly, I can skip over them. And I'd probably have to learn do it wordless and wandless, which I've never done before. But if I can figure it out, then maybe taking me would be less lucrative or something.” 

Draco knew the attempted abduction had terrified Scorpius, but he’d tried to pretend they’d moved past it. He’d not realised it was so central to his son’s thoughts that he’d approached Albus about it. Draco attempted to shrug off hurt at the fact that it wasn’t him to whom Scorpius had turned. It was natural, Draco told himself. Twelve-year-olds confided in their mates. Draco should be pleased that Scorpius had made such an indispensable friend. 

“I see,” he pondered. “So both spells edit out thoughts, it is just a matter of whether the thought is in the past or the future.”

“Exactly!” Albus nodded emphatically. “Would it be easier if you just tried it yourself? We could show you how."

Against his better judgment, Draco found the idea piqued his interest. “Perhaps. Tell me how _Praetereo_ _Retrosum_ is done.”

Albus hurried to his feet, and Scorpius hopped off the back of the chair. Talking over one another in their excitement, the two boys demonstrated the lurching, truncated figure they drew with their wands in the air. 

“You just have to focus on the memory or the current moment really hard, but at the same time, you have to imagine it being pruned away like a bit of dead tree, yeah?” Scorpius illustrated. Albus’ enthusiasm was obviously catching, because Scorpius was equally eager, as though he were telling Draco about his favourite novel or a classmate’s misbehaviour which would be detailed over tea in a scandalised whisper. 

“Alright, so, for _Retrosum_ you have to write down what you’re hoping to forget first. Then you can prove it worked. And it helps if you also include any preceding or proceeding events that are linked to it, so you don’t have any clues.” Albus shoved one of the notebooks at him and dug out a quill and a vial of ink from his satchel. “Here.”

Draco didn’t feel thrilled at the prospect of altering his mind with a bit of magic cobbled together but an eleven-year-old, no matter how precocious, but his academic curiosity won out. Besides, both children seemed convinced this bit of magic could protect Scorpius. Draco had sworn long ago to pursue all avenues to do that.

“I'll pick something simple so there’s nothing to write down,” Draco mused. “How about breakfast this morning. Scorpius, you remember what it was?”

“'Course. Poached eggs with rye.”

“And we didn’t talk about anything of import? Nothing you’ll regret me forgetting?”

“You gave me a lecture on stinging nettles,” Scorpius sighed. “Even though school is not supposed to begin for three more days.”

“Just because school lapses doesn’t mean learning must also. After all, it has been said that ‘ _Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it’._ ”

“Yes, Father. If you say so.” Scorpius made a face. 

“Ugh,” Albus shuddered. “Is my Dad going to say horrid things like that once he’s my professor, too?”

“Platitudes are catching,” Draco warned with mock seriousness. 

“Oh no!” Albus remarked, his eyes growing round. He clutched a farcical hand to his throat. “I feel it coming on! _When it rains, it pours!_ ”

Scorpius giggled at his friend’s antics and similarly joined in: “ _Good things come to those who wait!”_

_“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!_ ” Albus fired back. “Professor, help! Make it stop!”

“Very amusing,” Draco granted dryly, giving them a small smile. He couldn’t help but be glad Scorpius had found a clever friend who clearly cared for him. Sometimes Draco felt like Pansy was all he had back in his own school days, and to this day he didn’t know what he would have done without her. She might not be an academic, but she was brilliant in her own way. “If you’re quite done, I’ll give the spell a try?”

The boys twin gazes darted upwards to meet Draco’s. Their little faces were flushed with anticipation and pride. 

Draco pictured his meal that morning: the poached egg wobbling atop the buttered rye and sprinkled with black pepper, the tea in the white china cup with a chip in the rim, Scorpius' expression of affectionate exasperation. It was only that that gave Draco pause. He was loath to forget a single moment with Scorpius. He shook his head; he was being too sentimental by half. How many such breakfasts had he forgotten? Few meals were novel enough to twig long term memory storage, and this one would soon join the years’ worth of unremembered mornings, with or without the spell. 

He followed the idea of the day’s breakfast farther back, through the boiling of the water and the toasting of the bread, and decided to eliminate anything that would give the truth away. He imagined himself entering the kitchen and thinking ‘What shall it be today?’. That would be his starting place, the healthy branch from which he would prune away this unneeded scrap of time. His end point would be leaving the kitchen after tidying up the breakfast dishes. The bookends so identified, he turned his attention to motive: ‘I wish to forget this’. And, he found, he wasn’t lying. He was very determined to see if the spell carried any weight or if Albus and Scorpius were just choosing to believe something that brought them a bit of comfort. Draco raised his wand, traced the pattern in the air, and spoke the words: “ _Praetereo Retrosum!_ ”

Draco barely had time to register the bright zing of energy just above his hairline, deep inside his skull and just as suddenly gone. It was uncomfortable, making him blink, but it was also so fleeting, he couldn’t be sure he’d felt it at all. 

“Well?” Albus demanded, almost as soon as the words had left Draco’s mouth. “What did you have for breakfast, then?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer the question. Of course he knew what he’d had, he’d only just been thinking about it. But it was gone. He couldn’t remember a moment of it: not the taste or smell wafting off his plate, words he’d exchanged with Scorpius, or even the cleaning up. It was simply gone. “Merlin,” Draco breathed. “Extraordinary.”

“Pretty brill, isn’t it, Dad?” Scorpius asked. 

“When did you become plagued with these verbal abbreviations?” Draco commented. “They are lazy and wholly unnecessary.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Scorpius replied automatically. “But it is clever, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, Professor,” Albus echoed, but his grin belied any regret. “He probably got ‘em from me. But it’s good, right? The memory is gone?”

“It...certainly seems effective,” Draco conceded, still flabbergasted by the potency. “And it doesn’t come back? Not even traces of it?”

“Not that I remember,” Albus shrugged. “Anyway, I was trying to think of other practical applications, like maybe people getting surgery or like when someone dies and you’re too sad about it? Maybe I should take it to Healers or something, right? That would be cool if I could help people like that.”

Before Draco could interject, Scorpius piped in, his delicate features twisted in dubious contemplation. “I don’t know, Al,” he began. “Is life really supposed to be that easy? Like what if then people forget the lessons they learn or just cut out years of their life? Then they won’t know what they’re forgetting, even! Or who!”

“Hm, maybe,” Albus said, clearly unhappy that his friend didn’t agree with his assessment of the spell’s potential. “But like, I’ve never erased more than a few hours backwards and more than a few minutes going forwards. We don’t even know if you can! So it’s just for, like, little things. The mental equivalent of having warts frozen off by the Healer, nothing drastic.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Draco advised. “The first thing you need when you discover a poison, is an antidote. Until this spell is reversible, I don’t want it leaving this room, I hope that is understood.”

“Yeah, sure, Professor,” Albus nodded. “I already promised my dad nearly the same thing. But I could help with the reversal too, yeah?”

“Hm,” Draco intoned noncommittally. “Perhaps.” A thought came to him. “Albus, the spells’ accompanying gestures—how did you determine what would be successful?” Draco thought he had a book somewhere with the significance of rate, shape and direction, but it was a relatively rare tome, and not one he’d expect the child to have been able to find at Flourish and Blotts. “How did you decide upon the movement for _Retrosum_?” Draco avoided remarking on the fact that it often took years for a single spell to be developed, occasionally a lifetime, and yet this child had summoned one up in the space of a month or two.

“Just felt right,” Albus shrugged. “I mean, I tried hundreds, but when I did a movement that would end up in the final spell, I had a little ping, like ‘ _Yeah_ , _that’s good_ ’. I just tried to think what if the spell was an abstract painting like in that Muggle museum Grandad took us to, what shape would it take? And then I did that, just with my wand.”

Draco tried not to marvel aloud at the child’s intuition for magic. How had he missed it this past year? It must only be fully tangible when coupled with Albus’ peculiar fascinations. The immeasurable brilliance reminded Draco very suddenly and painfully of the boy’s namesake. Draco himself had quite a lot of uses for Albus’ discovery, he realised dryly. He wouldn’t dare, of course, but blast it if the idea wasn’t tempting.

How was he supposed to proceed with this damnable clever child? Too much potential was a dangerous thing, Scorpius’ gift—or, rather, his curse—reminded Draco of that daily. And what if Albus’ magic expanded and his power grew to match that of his father’s? Such a thing wasn’t typical, thankfully. One’s magical aptitude was fairly concrete from birth, honed with practice but not augmented. Nevertheless, Potters had a way of defying expectations. Merlin, Draco would have to have a conversation with Harry about all this, and sooner, rather than later. Albus was a Slytherin, after all, and ambition, power, and skill could be deadly, as Draco well knew.

Albus was flipping through his notebook, seemingly unaware of Draco’s concerns. “Weird how these gestures have so much meaning, especially since Scor will have to learn them wandless in case he gets nabbed again, or even better, wordless, too,” he puzzled. He examined a spell pattern he’d drawn in his notebook, then shook his hand and drew a different one beside it. “But that’s doable. My dad hardly uses his wand at all.”

“Your father’s inclination towards wandless magic is...unusual,” Draco reminded him. He wondered how much he should say. It was one thing to explain the breadth of Harry’s powers to James, to remind him that Harry was, in fact, quite worthy of respect, but it felt like another to dangle such a carrot for clever, crafty little Albus, whose ambition would need a great deal of tempering. “Then again, all magic is driven by necessity, and your father said he learned it when he had his arms full.”

“Arms full of what?” Albus queried. 

“Of you, I believe, as a baby.”

“Really?” Albus looked quite pleased. “So I made Dad a better wizard?”

“I would say perhaps you honed some of his skills,” Draco corrected.

“Awesome,” Albus commented thoughtfully. He brought his clasped hands up to his chest, as if trying to contain his infectious enthusiasm. “Alright, what’s next, then? You want to try the _Ante_?”

Draco found that he really didn’t, despite his anxious fascination with Albus’ discoveries and potential. “I’d rather not, no. We don’t know the long-term consequences of this, and it would be irresponsible of me to meddle with my mind when there is no one else here to look out for the two of you.”

“It’s fine, Dad, really,” Scorpius pressed. “I’ve done it a few times now and I’ve not had any problems, promise.”

Draco hmm’ed under his breath, less than thrilled at the idea of Albus Potter’s untried magic interfering with Scorpius’ mind. 

Albus piped in with his own offer: “And if something goes wrong, I’ll just Floo home and get my dad!” 

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Potter,” Draco began firmly, sliding back into professorial airs to make his point, “but I’m not interested at this time, and I ask that you respect my decision.”

Albus dropped his hands to the cold surface of the table. “Sorry,” he murmured as though scolded. 

“It’s quite alright,” Draco responded. He realised he’d embarrassed the child, and in front of Scorpius no less. He attempted some warmth as he explained his reasoning. “My reticence is certainly not a comment on the quality or ingenuity of your work. I am simply choosing to be cautious.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the boy muttered, staring at his hands. 

Draco sighed. Lovely, now he’d gone and devastated Potter’s prodigious son. “Albus—”

“You can call me Al, you know,” Albus grumbled. Draco let the interruption pass unmentioned. “Most everyone else does, except Uncle Percy because he’s annoying like that, or Dad when he’s pissy.”

“Al, then,” Draco corrected, the syllable feeling far too personal on his lips. “I am grateful that you're trusting me with information regarding these spells of yours, and for letting me examine your research. You’ve done something quite remarkable here. I don’t want you to believe I think otherwise.”

“Okay,” the boy said, perking up, his grey-green gaze finding Draco’s. “Well. Thanks. I mean, Dad said I had to, but also because I wanted to. So. You’re welcome.” He took a breath, his expression earnest. “I really was just trying to come up with something that would make me feel better and might help Scor out. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“I know,” Draco agreed solemnly. “Nor do I.”

“Really? Because I love being kidnapped, and was hoping to make it an annual occurrence,” Scorpius drawled. 

Draco shifted to look at Scorpius, who was resting his pointed chin on his knuckles, his elbow propped up by Albus’ shoulder. 

Draco rose. “Don’t joke about that, please, my love,” he said softly, suddenly feeling the sick thrill of dread he’d experienced at the sound of the intruders, the realisation that they were already in Scorpius’ room. He skirted the memory. “Well, I think that is enough theory for today,” he decided briskly. “Your father will be most displeased if I keep you indoors on a beautiful summer day, I’m sure, Al.”

“Dad doesn’t get fussed about things like that,” Al protested. “We can keep working!”

“No, out you go. Muck about in the garden or take some broomsticks from the shed and fly about the grounds.”

He was met with matching scowls from the boys, neither of whom had ever taken to Quidditch. Nevertheless, Draco didn’t budge. He needed some time to mull this all over. He ushered the children toward the garden door. “Or, if that doesn’t appeal, Scorpius, perhaps you can show Al the pond, the woods, or the greenhouses. If you choose the latter, don’t pick anything, please. Most of the ingredients are for this coming term, and Al, I’ll not return you to your father with a swollen tongue or a rash from eating something you shouldn’t.”

“I’ve not got a death wish!” Albus assured him. 

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Draco replied dryly, and shut the door firmly in their faces. Then, with mounting fascination, he returned to Albus’ notebooks. 

_**/// ///** _

The boys returned before it was time to leave for dinner at Potter’s. Dressing, Draco blanched. Dinner at Potter's with the Granger-Weasleys, what a miserable thought. He wished he’d discussed these developments with Pansy, but part of him didn’t yet want to admit what he’d done, how quickly it was progressing. He’d declined Pansy’s invitation to meet her for drinks following that first...date with Potter. He couldn’t yet face her crowing ‘ _I told you so_ ’s at every confession. But truly, it would be one thing for her to revel in the burgeoning relationship when it was casual days and clandestine nights, but this mixing of families and Potter’s taking the position at Hogwarts and his newfound ability to seemingly talk Draco into any daft thing—Merlin, what a precipice on which to find himself. Even Pansy would have to concede the potential for disaster, wouldn’t she? Probably not, he conceded with a sigh. For someone who lambasted romance when it came to her own life, she was certainly keen on Draco’s finding some.

Draco gave himself a once-over in the mirror, but refused to allow himself more than that. There would be, he decided, no changing of outfits or fussing with his hair, like a nervy teenager. 

“Might I suggest the ribbed grey jumper, sir?” the mirror prompted. 

“Hm, yes, you’re right,” Draco agreed, fetching the item and pulling it on over his dress shirt which was a rich blush colour with a simple floral pattern on the cuffs and collar. It was hardly ostentatious, but it hinted at something outside traditional masculinity. It was a challenge, maybe, to see if Harry or Weasley would recoil at anything that could be coded as queer. 

“Very good, sir,” the mirror told him approvingly and Draco nodded his agreement. It would do. 

He applied a touch of cologne and walked to the drawing room to meet the boys. 

Scorpius was looking uncomfortable in his button-up shirt and pressed trousers. “Al said we don’t have to dress up,” he groused. “It’s just dinner.”

“It never hurts to look one’s best,” Draco told him. What he didn’t say was that decent clothes could serve as armour from scorn and derision, and were a tool Draco clung to in times when he had very little freedom from either. He resolved not to give the Granger-Weasleys an opening, if he could help it, even if Scorpius looked rather prim compared to Al, who was standing there in a T-shirt and jeans, with his hair sticking up in short, casual spikes which observed no adherence to symmetry or order.

“Fine,” Scorpius sighed. 

“I hope we don’t have to have a conversation about manners, dearest,” Draco warned, his voice light. He didn’t like to scold his son, but this bit of cheek was unusual (and reeked of the Potter boys) and Draco wanted to establish a tone of civility for the evening. He forced the tension in his jaw to ease. He understood at once that his response to Scorpius’ irritation was more tied to his own damn nerves than anything. He echoed Scorpius’ sigh. It was ridiculous, this anxiety over meeting up with some old schoolmates, this concern that he ought to make the right impression. Then again, these were Harry’s oldest friends. If Draco bollocksed this up, who was to say Harry wouldn’t be turned against him, leaving this tentative bond they’d built the last couple of weeks crumbling all to ash?

He inspected Scorpius briefly, sweeping the fine silver-gold bangs away from his son’s eyes and spelling them loosely in place. He’d suggest a haircut this weekend, though Scorpius seemed to prefer hiding behind his fringe. Scorpius didn’t talk back while Draco fussed with the boy’s collar until it lay flat, though he could see frustration in the pursing of the child’s chapped lips. 

“Very well, that will do,” Draco said finally, stepping back. He motioned to the fireplace. “After you, Al, if you would?”

“Sure thing,” Al agreed, throwing some Floo powder in and stepping into the flames. “Eiderdown End!” he cried out, and disappeared. 

Draco swallowed hard, and then he and Scorpius followed suit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, all!
> 
> Thanks to everyone for your clicks and comments, I'm so appreciative of literally every single one. Extra special thanks to my stupendous beta reader, MimbelWimbel. 
> 
> "Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it," is a quote from Einstein. 
> 
> Just a heads up: I've decided this story will be ending soon and will be turned into the first in a series instead. The next leg of the story will be set at Hogwarts and it felt like too big of a shift, especially since so many new characters will be introduced. There are a few more chapters to go in this fic, but just wanted to give you all a heads up since I know there are still a lot of loose threads! Also, I don't think there will be any delay between finishing this one and starting the next, so if you're interested in continuing reading (and I really, really hope you are!), please keep an eye out/subscribe to my user account to make sure you don't miss the next story in the series!
> 
> In other news, I have a bit of a cache of (lengthier) chapters saved up that I'm still editing, but I suspect I will be updating weekly for the next couple of weeks at least. Thanks so much!


	23. Twenty-Three - Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, wasn't sure I should post this week because I know the news has been an absolute dystopian nightmare and I don't want to pretend I'm not bothered and upset by it. But then I thought maybe fic is acting as a bit of a reprieve from the real world for some folks? So I posted anyway. So. Sorry everything sucks. I wish it didn't. 
> 
> **C/W (spoilers, so scroll past if you don't want to know!)** :  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Okay fair warning, this and next couple of chapters might be considered Ron-bashing, but I really was just trying to be emotionally realistic and I promise it is **temporary** and I like Ron and he'll smarten up eventually. Please don't hate me 😅.

Harry wasn’t an idiot. He knew he ought to have warned Ron and Hermione that Draco was planning on attending their annual end-of-summer meal. The issue was this: Harry wasn’t convinced that Draco truly would come, not really. And the only thing worse than breaking the news that he and their old enemy were now quite friendly, was being stood up by him. So Harry hadn’t spoken it aloud, just in case he jinxed it. 

He was regretting that now. 

Draco and Scorpius had popped out onto the grubby rug in front of the fireplace shortly after Al, who was now busy being greeted affectionately by Ron and Hermione. Remy was cooing merrily in Hermione’s arms. The sight of Draco always caught Harry off guard and he had to fight back a blush. The man was impossibly handsome with his high cheekbones and sharp jawline and expertly tailored clothes that accentuated his lean frame. The collar of his shirt was folded over his fitted jumper and was, Harry noticed suddenly, pink, undeniably pink. Harry wasn’t at all sure he’d seen Draco wearing anything but blacks and greys, and the little pop of colour was...quite smart, really. Harry swallowed. Merlin, he had no idea how he’d ever captured Draco’s fancy, what with middle-age encroaching in his own features. Not to mention that fatherhood certainly hadn’t made Harry more fit—quite the opposite, really.

“Er, hi!” Harry exclaimed with forced cheer, remembering himself. Ron and Hermione froze, looking up over Al’s head to stare at the newcomers. Hermione looked only surprised, but Ron’s expression was nothing short of grim. ‘ _Shit,_ ’ Harry thought, but he had no options beyond courtesy. He leaped up from his seat and stepped in to shake Draco’s hand and clap him on the shoulder. Draco’s lip curled in response at the downright _blokeyness_ of the gesture, but he smoothed his features into a faint, polite smile. 

“Potter,” he said mildly. 

Harry felt Ron and Hermione behind him. Merlin, what had he done? He stepped back. 

“Of course, you know Ron and Hermione,” Harry proclaimed with a handwave.

“Indeed,” Draco murmured, giving the couple a nod. 

Hermione recovered first, her diplomatic instincts kicking in. “Good evening, Professor. And Scorpius! How lovely to see you both again,” she addressed them, a degree of warmth to her voice. 

Scorpius gave her a timid smile. “Hello,” he said. 

“Jamie’s got some self-setting skittles going on in the garden, so Lily, Rose and Hugo are out there,” Harry offered. “I’m sure they are hoping you’ll join them.”

“Yeah, alright,” Al agreed, tugging on his friend’s arm. “Come on!” The two boys ran off, leaving the adults to stare uncomfortably at one another. 

Ron cleared his throat in the ensuing silence. “Just, ah, coming to drop the kids off?” he asked Draco.

Harry winced.

“No,” Draco replied coolly, his unimpressed gaze alighting on Harry. “I was under the impression I was invited for dinner.”

“You were. You are!” Harry choked out quickly, mortified. “Of course you are! I just wasn’t sure if, er, you were planning on coming.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Harry responded, flustered. “Just…thought you might change your mind.”

“Ah, well, if you were not expecting us, we can—”

“No!” Harry squawked. “No, don’t be silly, I was! I mean, I hoped you’d be here, I just wasn’t...sure.” One day, Harry told himself, seeing Draco wouldn’t turn him into this spluttering, awkward mess. It was like every time they stepped into a room together, Harry had to acclimatise, certain that Draco would realise he was mad to ever pursue him. 

“I see,” Draco said, and Harry thought he saw a hint of amusement in those grey eyes. It was strangely calming.

Ron was staring at Harry now. “Sorry? Harry, what?” he hissed, as though if he said it quietly enough, he wouldn’t be overheard. Harry wanted to smack him. 

“Ron!” Harry and Hermione scolded as one. 

“What?!” Ron demanded. “Didn’t know you were all chummy with Malfoy, is all!”

“Yeah, well,” Harry shrugged. “I am. He’s been helping me out with the kids and things a bit this summer, and turns out we, uh, well, we get on. So we’ve been spending some time together. I didn’t realise having friends outside of you was such a transgression.”

Ron gaped at him like a fish, lips parting and closing in horrified, wordless wonder. 

“ _He_ was helping you out with the kids?” Ron demanded, when he finally found his tongue. “They’re _my_ bloody niece and nephews, and I’ve barely seen them!”

“And whose fault is that?” Draco asked, his voice calm and quietly accusatory, compared to Ron’s angry blather. “Maybe next time when someone is in crisis, you ought not to wait on an invitation.”

Ron whirled on him. “I was giving him space!”

“Oh yes, because just what every newly single parent needs is space,” Draco scoffed. “Not someone to stop by with groceries or meals and help out around the house and childcare.”

“Right, because I’m supposed to believe _you_ did those things. Death Eaters are known for their domestic savvy, after all,” Ron countered. 

“As a matter of fact—”

“That’s enough!” Harry interrupted. “Please stop turning helping me into some sort of pissing contest. Ron, Draco is my...well, he’s my friend, isn’t he? I’ve invited him to dinner because I thought it might be nice for all of us to spend some time together. I’d appreciate it if you’d make an effort to be civil. Draco, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you be ambushed like this. Honestly, I was afraid you’d back out, and now I’m guessing you rather wish you had.”

“Civil!” Ron exploded. “To him? Have you somehow repressed what they did to Hermione in _his house,_ Harry? You’re suddenly all cozy with the perpetrator of the worst of my nightmares?”

“Ron, love,” Hermione interrupted with a hand on her husband’s forearm. She held her palm up to silence him as he went to speak. “Those things happened to _me_ , so I should think I would get some say here. Firstly, Draco was not a participant in my torture, so please don’t cast aspersions. In fact, if I remember that night correctly, he lied to protect Harry’s identity. Secondly, he is a well-respected member of Hogwarts faculty, and, may I remind you, your daughter’s professor, so I would think you would extend something akin to decency.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Ron protested. “Do I have to remind you how he almost killed me? Have you somehow forgotten that?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said gently. “But we all know you weren’t the intended target.”

“Oh! So it’s okay that I almost died because he was trying to off someone else?”

Harry answered Ron's question this time. “That’s not what she said. But, like, think about it, mate. Dumbledore would never have fallen for something so obvious or so, I don’t know, juvenile. Those first efforts, I'd be willing to bet they were nothing but stalling tactics. It doesn’t erase what happened to Katie and what happened to you, and I’m not saying it was right, but it doesn’t make him a killer.” Harry contested, giving voice to debates he'd had with himself over these last few weeks, when so much of his ruminations had involved analysing Draco's past and present. “Besides when it came down to it, he couldn’t do it. I was there that night, when Snape—anyway. I was there and Draco didn't do it. He couldn't, that’s not who he is, I believe that.”

There was a tug at Draco's eyebrow and Harry knew there would be a conversation about that confession sooner or later, but he couldn't attend to it because Ron was still there, fuming, his large hands balling up into fists at his sides.

“Didn’t feel that way to me when I was fucking choking to death!” The redhead snarled.

“Well, what do you want me to do about that?” Harry prompted, feeling suddenly very tired of conflict and of memories. He felt his own anger gathering behind his breastbone, but he knew allowing it to flare and match Ron's would end poorly for them all. Instead he maintained a low tone, subdued and reasonable. “Assume the worst and not allow anyone a chance for growth or change? Doesn’t sound very practical, mate. Hatred isn’t bred in the bone. You’re perfectly aware of that fact, we all are. It’s learned, and it can be unlearned. And I truly believe Draco’s done that work. He’s not the boy he was, Ron, I’ll swear to it.”

“You’re misconstruing my words. I’m not saying that, you know I’m not. He can grow and change all he wants. I just don't know why _we_ ought to bear witness to it. And, besides, it doesn’t excuse all he did.”

“No,” Draco cut in. There was a trembling to his words that he couldn’t suppress, despite his obvious effort. “It doesn’t. The things I did were inexcusable. I know, because I live with them daily. I’m sorry for those I hurt and for those you lost. I was misguided and misled and steeped in harmful beliefs since the day I was born.” Draco paused to swallow. There was tightness to the sinews in his neck that Harry wanted to ease, but his eyes were clear. He took a steadying breath and continued. “I cannot undo the past, Weasley, but I have since tried to live decently. If there is some other atonement you demand of me, by all means, tell me and I’ll gladly consider it.”

This was clearly not the reply Ron was expecting and he stared at Draco wide-eyed, jaw twitching furiously. “If I remember correctly, your father lay low, too, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to cling to power,” he accused, voice thick with suspicion. 

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed Draco’s composed features: a momentary pursing of his lips, the bob of his Adam’s apple. Harry felt a sudden, aching reflex to step in and wrap a protective arm around him, but he knew he couldn’t. They’d agreed to keep this thing of theirs unspoken and unacknowledged and Harry wouldn’t betray Draco’s confidence like that, no matter how much he wanted to. 

“You’re right,” Draco murmured. His eyes were steady on Ron’s, his head held high. He still had his pride, Harry knew, despite everything. “But I’m not my father. If you’re unwilling to be convinced of that, and instead wish to cling to the wretchedness of the past, then I’ll take my leave. Harry, if you’d be so kind as to bring Scorpius by in the morning? He’ll be disappointed if I cancel his slumber party.” He collected himself and stepped towards the fireplace. 

“Draco, wait—” Harry cried out, disappointment and frustration clanging noisily in his head. He clutched at Draco’s sleeve to keep him from leaving. “Ron’s...being an arse.”

“Oi!” Ron objected, “I am not!” He was glaring at where Harry’s hand gripped Draco’s jumper as though even the barest contact was a betrayal. Draco shifted away, and Harry felt a rush of helpless hurt. This wasn’t supposed to be so hard. 

“No?” Harry demanded. “So you’re not judging someone on who they were twenty years ago?” He deflated, by now utterly exhausted. Harry considered Ron, then, red-faced and spitting mad. Maybe Ron was the one who hadn’t changed. He recognised this pattern between them as something from their school days. “I’d forgotten how jealous you can get,” Harry commented quietly, almost as an afterthought.

“That’s not fair!” Ron seethed. 

“Isn’t it?” Harry sighed and ran a agitated hand through his hair. His intention this evening really hadn’t been to implode his friendship with Ron, and he ought to take responsibility for his own stupidity. “Nevermind, that’s not what I’m trying to get at. Just...look, mate, I know I’ve not been the most social bloke since the war ended and I’ve kept my circle small. For the most part, I had you two, Ginny, and your whole family, and that felt like enough for me. But Ginny’s gone, and I, Merlin, I think I just needed someone who wasn’t connected to her. But occasionally I’ll begin new friendships, you know, not to hurt you or because you're company's not enough or anything like that, but just because they happen, and I...I think that’s allowed.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Ron grumbled. “But I’ve not heard from you all summer. That’s not friendship either.”

“No,” Harry sighed. “It isn’t, I’m sorry. But, honestly, Ron, you’re Gin’s brother. She’s speaking to you when I don’t even know where in the world she is. It might not be reasonable, but I would hope you could understand how seeing you might be...painful. So I avoided it. I'll certainly give you that. I avoided it, and then, but my own fault entirely, I was alone. I was alone and I needed some bloody help. And by chance, Draco stopped by because Al and Scorpius are mates, and he saw I wasn’t doing well and he stepped up and gave me some help and some damn company. That’s all. Not because you weren’t, but because it couldn’t be you.”

“I wanted to be here, Harry, you have to know that,” Ron pressed.

“Of course I do,” He attempted a game smile to show the genuine nature of his affection. “We’ve been through the worst together already, haven’t we? I know I’m stuck with you.” To his relief Ron nodded, as if coming to a decision. 

“Damn right you are. Alright. You want me to play nice with Malfoy here for an evening, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, or that I have to trust him.”

“Likewise,” Draco clipped and Ron had the nerve to look offended. 

“Thank you,” Harry muttered. “Truly, Ron, I appreciate it.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulder and Ron allowed the gesture. It was a start, Harry supposed. “Now, can I get you all something to drink?”

_**/// ///** _

Dinner was chaos. Jamie looked generally irritated—Teddy had left to do a bit of travelling before his term resumed and Jamie was clearly feeling the loss—and the rest of the kids were hyped-up with each other’s company. Hugo, a fidgety child a year or so younger than Lily was desperately trying to get a word in edgewise, but was being chronically sidelined by his sister and Harry’s lot who were laughing about something Harry couldn’t follow at all. Ron was sullen and withdrawn, but thankfully Hermione and Draco were managing to make pleasant conversation. 

“Do you do much travelling for your work?” Draco asked her. 

“Quite a lot,” Hermione answered, sipping her wine. “But thank goodness for Floo Networks and Apparition! I’m able to slip away for bedtime most evenings, and make it back before anyone really notices I’m gone.”

“It must be quite an interesting career,” Draco remarked. 

“Yeah, and one she can’t talk about,” Ron sniped. “So don’t you go getting any ideas about her spilling state secrets.”

“Ronald, that is enough,” Hermione admonished. “And yes, Professor, you would think so, but really, it’s a lot of sitting in meetings and massaging egos.”

“Hm, yes, I suppose that makes a fair bit of sense, considering the personality types of many drawn to politics, yourself excluded, of course. And please, call me Draco.” 

Ron inhaled sharply mid-sip and started coughing. Harry couldn’t help but suspect that Draco purposefully timed that remark for when Ron’s mouth was full. He shook his head. Merlin, Draco's needling wouldn't help anything. Could neither of them behave? Maybe this really was a terrible idea and eventually he’d have to choose between his best mate and his...well, whatever Draco was. 

As if reading his thoughts, Draco slipped a hand under the table and gave Harry’s leg a consolatory squeeze. It only lasted a moment, but the contact was precisely what Harry needed, somehow: a glimmer of reassurance that Draco wasn’t running, not yet. 

“Speaking of work,” Harry started, once Ron’s coughs had abated. “I, er, have some news. For everyone, actually.” He raised his voice to end the excited chatter at the other end of the table. “So, kids…?”

“Al, shut up, Dad’s making his announcement!” Jamie commanded.

“Yeah, well, I already know it, don’t I?” Al quibbled. Jamie elbowed him. 

“James, Albus, please,” Harry chastised them tiredly. 

The boys settled, except Hugo who took the opportunity to blow a raspberry onto the back of his arm. Harry suspected the boy was hoping to make the other children laugh, but the gesture fell flat and Rose smacked her brother on the arm, leaving him momentarily crestfallen. 

“Hugo, was it kind to interrupt your uncle like that?” Hermione prompted.

Blushing a red that matched his hair, Hugo shifted in his chair like he needed a wee and shook his head. “Sorry, Uncle Harry.”

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s no problem. Well,” Harry began, but was at once interrupted by Remy’s shrieks from his playmat beside the dining room table. 

Before Harry had a moment to respond, Draco rose. He pressed his palm to Harry’s shoulder. “You go ahead,” he instructed. “I’ll see to him.” Harry wondered ungenerously how much of this offer had to do with helping him, and how much it had to do with rubbing their relationship in Ron’s face. If rooted in the latter motivation, it certainly had the desired effect. Ron leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backwards. 

“Leave off. I can do it,” he asserted. 

Hermione pressed the tips of two fingers to her temple as if to suppress her own irritation. “Ron, dear,” she began, not sounding as though she was finding his current behaviour very dear at all, “sit down, please. Harry’s got something to tell us.”

Draco levelled his gaze at Harry, awaiting instruction. 

“You sure?” Harry asked him helplessly. 

“Yes, of course. Like Al, I already know your news.” He gave an uncharacteristic grin which, along with the newly-acquired use of Al's nickname, Harry saw with crystal clarity was solely for the purpose of setting Ron’s blood to boil. Conniving arsehole. Harry sighed, shaking his head. Nevertheless, he felt a bit amused seeing the purple tinge spreading across Ron’s cheeks as he righted his chair and slumped onto it. Draco really was a masterful provocateur, Harry would give him that.

Harry tried not to watch as Draco scooped up the baby and whisked him off to the kitchen to retrieve some formula. Draco minding Remy never failed to give Harry tender feelings that he couldn’t fully bear, especially not right now, with Ron shooting daggers across the room and gripping his utensils with white knuckles. Hermione, bless her, only smiled encouragingly. The kids were quickly losing interest, with Al whispering something to Scorpius and Rose hissing at him to be quiet.

“Well,” Harry said again hurriedly. “I’ve been offered a position teaching Defence at Hogwarts. And, er, I’ve accepted.”

“Really!” Rose was the first to react. She was a near replica of her mother, brains and all, except the bushy hair that framed her face was the colour of carrots. “Uncle Harry, that’s wonderful! Oh, but I hope Professor Stump is alright?”

“Perfectly,” Draco said, sweeping back into the room. Remy was sucking greedily at his bottle, cradled in Draco’s arms as though his providing infant care was the most natural thing in the world. There was a faded cloth folded over his shoulder in preparation for burping. Harry forgot to summon one more often than not, but of course Draco wouldn’t. He was always three steps ahead of any situation. “She’s fallen in love with an American, however, and was convinced to emigrate to Minnesota to be with her.” 

None of the children even blinked at the idea of their former professor in a same-sex relationship. Harry could scarcely believe how much things had changed since he was a child, in so many ways. 

Ron’s jaw dropped as he stared at Harry, gobsmacked. Hermione gave him a knowing look, because of course nothing came as news to her, but she hid it quickly with a sincere smile. Hugo looked like he might say something but just blew out his lips, still cowed from his admonition over the raspberry.

“Oh!” Rose exclaimed as her father sputtered helplessly on some sound he couldn’t get out. “How lovely. She always did seem a bit lonely to me. Well, I think you’ll be a wonderful professor, Uncle Harry!”

“Merlin, Rosie, you’re such a suck up,” Al rolled his eyes. 

“Albus,” Harry chided as Rose glowered.  
  


“You’re just jealous because I actually succeed at school and you’re too busy sneaking about being conniving and sinister and _Slytherin_!” she fired back. Well, Harry supposed, some things never changed, after all.

Al snorted. “Oh yes, I’m so incredibly jealous of you always doing exactly what you’re told and not thinking a single thought that hasn’t been fed to you by one professor or another.”

“Albus, that is quite enough,” Draco reprimanded. “You may shape up and apologise to your cousin, or Scorpius can return home with me this evening.”

Harry was surprised that Draco stepped in, but he was not nearly as astonished as Ron appeared to be. Ron’s face was frozen in shock, mouth open around a bit of half-chewed beef. Harry couldn’t quite discern if the reaction was because Draco stood up for Rose, or because he’d scolded Al and Harry had let him. But as far as Harry could tell, Al deserved it, and, amazingly, even looked remorseful about disappointing a teacher Harry knew he respected. It was a much more earnest reaction than anything Harry could hope to elicit had he taken a similar tone. 

Albus screwed up his mouth and uttered an apology: “Sorry, Professor. And sorry, Rosie. I know you can be clever enough. I didn’t mean it.” 

“You’re forgiven,” Rose sniffed.

“Dad, can we be excused so we can get back to skittles?” Jamie inquired. “No offense, but this is seriously dull, and I’m afraid the charm on the pins is going to wear off and you'll be too busy _talking_ to redo it.” His voice made it clear he thought Harry's propensity to speak to other adults was another one of his failings. 

“Yes, of course,” Harry said. He was relieved enough at the interruption to ignore Jamie’s rudeness. “Out you go. I’ll call when pudding’s ready.”

As chairs scraped over the floor and utensils clattered onto plates, Ron seemed to remember he was mid-way through a meal. His jaw snapped closed and he swallowed down the lump of steak. The gesture looked a bit painful from the way his eyes bugged out of his head for a moment there. He took another swig of his beer.

“Well, when did you find out about this job at Hogwarts, then? Seems a bit late in the summer for them to be making staff changes.” Ron enquired once the kids had trundled off to the garden. There was a note of challenge in his voice. “I suppose you’ve known for a while if _Draco_ is already aware.” The name dripped with loathing. 

“Hardly!” Harry hastened to assure him. “It’s all come together only within the last few days. I wouldn’t leave you in the dark like that; this was a very last minute decision.”

“So much for our being Aurors together.”

“Merlin, Ron,” Harry huffed with exasperation. He could understand Ron being hurt, but this behaviour was verging on childish. “When were we last Aurors together, truly? Not since Jamie was born and I switched departments. And now I’m down Ginny’s income,” then, under his breath he added, “as well as the Galleons she helped herself to from our joint account.”

“She did what?” Hermione said sharply. 

“Nevermind,” Harry amended, feeling awash with guilt. He was trying to be better than this. “Forget I said anything, it was petty. She needs money to live on, I know that. It’s not like she cleared me out.”

Hermione didn’t look pleased but she didn’t press. 

“Anyway,” Harry continued. “Hogwarts made me an offer I’d be a fool to refuse. Plus I’ll see the boys more, and Lily, once she’s at school.”

“Provided you break the curse,” Ron muttered darkly. “And don’t get yourself killed like half the DADA professors.”

“Slight exaggeration there, Weasley,” Draco smirked. “Besides, I’ve no intention of letting that happen.”

The stormy expression still brewing on Ron’s face made it clear he’d realised Draco would also be returning to Hogwarts in a couple of days, and the idea didn’t thrill him. “Oh lovely,” he jeered. “Because you’ve always taken Harry’s safety so much to heart.”

Draco didn’t answer, just bounced Remy in his arms, smiling sweetly at the redheaded baby. It was a possessive, meaningful gesture that even Ron—who sometimes didn’t pick up on things left unspoken—couldn’t fail to understand. He made a noise that sounded a bit like a growl. 

“I think it’s wonderful, Harry,” Hermione declared, flashing a warning glare at Ron. “Congratulations! Will you be moving closer to the school?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, grateful for some semblance of normalcy. “Hogwarts has secured the three of us a cottage in Hogsmeade. Lily’s a bit nervous about starting somewhere new, but the village school offers after school care, and she’s a social little thing. I’m hopeful she’ll make friends before long.”

“I’m sure she will,” Hermione agreed. 

“Longbottom’s kids are at that school,” Draco offered. “He and Abbott have a whole brood of them; he’s always showing photos to anyone who’ll humour him. But I think his oldest is about Lily’s age.”

“Of course!” Hermione beamed. “I remember getting the announcement, because I thought how funny it was that Harry and Neville share a birthday and then Alice-May and Lily were only a day apart.”

“Oh! Yeah of course! Well, that’s great, then. They’re nice kids, if I remember correctly. Well, nicer than mine,” Harry groused. “Not that that is difficult.”

“Yours are lovely children, too,” Hermione corrected him firmly. “They’re just going through a lot right now.”

“Yeah,” Harry exhaled heavily. “I am hoping me being around will make things easier on the older two, but it could well just backfire and leave them furious.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Hermione determined. “They need to know someone will stick by them.”

To Harry’s surprise, Ron didn’t say anything in Ginny’s defence. He only looked at where his hand was curled around his pint. He took another long swallow of beer and then looked up at Harry. “Well,” he grunted. “Rosie will be happy to see you around the castle, too.”

Harry knew an olive branch when he saw one. “And I, her. I’ll keep an eye on her, not to worry. Not that she’s likely to get into trouble.”

Ron snorted. “Would be hard to get into as many scrapes as we did. Merlin, I hate to think of it, sometimes. I just pray that things at Hogwarts have calmed down since we were kids.”

“Well, the Dark Lord being long dead certainly helps,” Draco supplied. 

“The Dark Lord, eh?” Ron repeated, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

Draco didn’t look at all bothered. He shifted Remy to his other arm and returned the bottle to the baby’s lips. “Oh yes, very clever, Weasley, you’ve found me out. A force of habit has exposed my undying allegiance to a monster who branded me when I was a child.”

“You weren’t the only one he disfigured,” Ron pointed out. 

“Hm, another thing Potter and I can bond over.” Draco’s smile had far too many glinting white teeth. Harry wanted to knock both their heads together over this juvenile competition for his allegiance. 

“Come on,” Harry said, rising. “I’ll tidy up and get the crumble into the oven.”

“I’ll help,” Hermione decided, her voice bright. She put a stern hand to Ron’s shoulder. “You both better still be alive and well when I get back, is that understood?”

“I’ll behave if he will,” Ron rumbled, low in his throat. 

Draco quirked a perfect blond eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m a model houseguest,” he proclaimed.

_**/// ///** _

Harry lumbered into the kitchen feeling ten years older and similarly exhausted. 

“Harry,” Hermione began kindly, “what on earth were you thinking?”

“That we were adults and could manage a few hours’ civility?”

Hermione gave him a look that said she didn’t even sort of believe him. Harry rubbed the back of his neck and rotated his shoulders uncomfortably. Trust Hermione to call him out on his rubbish. He shifted under her calculating stare.

“I was afraid he wouldn’t show,” he admitted finally. “Like what if I told you and Ron to brace yourselves and expect him and then he canceled? It was too humiliating, somehow, and it would prove Ron right: that I’m a fool for trusting Draco.”

“But he came,” Hermione asserted. 

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, using his magic to stack dishes onto the counter. “He did.”

“And now he’s chastising your children and holding your baby in a way that makes me think he’s done it before.”

“He has,” Harry swallowed. Firing up the oven, he felt a blush rising along his neck which had nothing to do with the glowing element before him. He tugged at his collar. “Draco’s, er, spent some time here. Just helping out, you know. And he’s the boys’ professor. I’m sure he’s told them off just as often as I have, nothing new there.”

“Harry,” Hermione said again, reaching out to press a warm hand to Harry’s arm. “I don’t want to embarrass you, but you’re not always the most observant of people."

Harry furrowed his brows at her, not understanding what she was getting at, and maybe coincidentally proving her point. She continued: "You know I pick up rumours through my work?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry shrugged nonplussed. He slid the blueberry crumble into the oven.

“Right. Well, what I’m about to tell you is not common knowledge, and is certainly not the sort of thing I would ever spread around—people’s private business is their own—but I feel you ought to know that Malfoy is gay, or at least enjoys the attentions of men. Not that his sexuality does matters whatsoever if you want to pursue a friendship with him, that’s not what I meant—”

“Yeah,” Harry interrupted her, blushing and turning towards the sink to avoid Hermione’s sharp gaze. “Yeah, he told me that himself.”

“Oh!” Hermione seemed surprised, but gave him a pleased look. “Okay, lovely. Nevermind my interfering, then,” Hermione assured him. “I just wanted to say something because...well, you just can be more than a bit oblivious when it comes to these things. I don’t want you to misinterpret his actions as friendship when he might be expecting or hoping for something more. And of course, I would never assume that simply because he’s a gay man, but I can’t ignore his demonstrably possessive actions, let alone the way looks at you.”

Harry stared at her, uncertain as to how on earth he was to respond to that. “What do you mean?” He blurted out before he could stop himself. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione sighed, pulling on the silver chain around her neck. “Ron and Draco’s ridiculous one-up-manship over you has him looking like the cat that’s got the cream. Proprietorial. And like he wants to devour you whole, but also smug, as though he knows something we don’t.”

Harry fumbled his wine glass as he went to run it under the tap. It shattered on the floor. “Shit!” Harry cursed, jumping out of the way as Hermione uttered a repair spell. The glass rematerialised atop the counter.

“Alright in there, Potter?” Draco called out. 

“Fine!” Harry shouted back. 

“Harry, you didn’t!” Hermione hissed. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Harry ground out between gritted teeth. 

“Horse shit. You’ve been...Merlin, Harry, have you been sleeping with Draco Malfoy?”

Harry groaned miserably. He dropped his elbows to the counter and his face into his palms. 

“Fucking hell, ‘Mione. You’re not supposed to know,” he mumbled glumly. “It’s new. We’re not telling anyone yet, not until we figure out what this is.” He peeked out from his fingers to look at his friend, who had a palm pressed to her chest in surprise. 

“Then tell him to keep his eyes in his damn head,” she whispered frantically. “Before the whole world figures it out.”

“Most people aren’t as clever as you,” Harry groused. 

Hermione only scoffed, tossing her hair. “I can’t believe this.”

“You can’t tell Ron,” Harry cut in, his words still hushed. “I hate asking you to keep secrets, but please. I just need more time. It might be nothing.”

“Harry, he’s currently burping your bloody baby. This is clearly not nothing. Merlin, I had no idea. When did you realise you were...what? Gay? Bisexual?”

“I don’t know!” Harry insisted. “It wasn’t something I was hiding, I was as surprised as you are. He just...came onto me and, well, okay, maybe I was shocked and a little horrified at the very beginning but then, well, Merlin, it was like something switched on and then I simply wanted him, didn’t I? Besides, it’s not like he’s ever been hard to look at.”

Hermione snorted. “You’re not wrong there.”

Harry gave her a scandalised look, but Hermione only threw up her hands defensively.

“Alright,” she said soothingly. “Alright, that’s alright. It’s great, Harry, I’m happy for you, if this is what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Harry cried out in a strained whisper. “But I like him, ‘Mione, I really do. I’ve been a mess all summer, but his showing up sort of snapped me out of it. He did a few little things to help out, trivial stuff really, but I was so overwhelmed that they felt significant, like a damn life line, really, and then he stood by while I found my feet. He seems so decent now, so level and put together and I find I just feel better when he's around. And he gets on with the kids, better than I do half the time, probably, and given how unhappy they've been, that's hardly nothing. And really just...thinking about him, well, it's as if I have something to look forward to again, for the first time in ages. I can't tell you how much of massive reprieve it's been. And I know it’s too soon, you don’t need to tell me that Ginny left barely three months ago and I’m a wreck and clearly rebounding and shouldn’t get mixed up with someone, especially someone I’m going to be seeing every school day going forward and especially not Draco fucking Malfoy—”

“I’m not saying any of that, actually,” Hermione interrupted, voice firm. Harry stood stunned, mouth agape. Hermione sighed and began to explain: “I’ve been reading people for the greater part of my career, Harry. And what I’ve learned is that we make a lot of rules for what people should do and how people should proceed after tragedy, and what’s acceptable and what’s not. But the reality is that people are going to do what they need to do in order to cope. And if what’s getting you through right now is sneaking around with Draco Malfoy, then I’m happy for you. I’m honestly thrilled you’ve got a distraction and I’m grateful to him for giving that to you. And if it turns out to be more than that, I’ll be pleased for you then, too.”

Harry didn’t know what he had been expecting. A lecture, perhaps, or at the very least frustration at his stupidity. Instead, Hermione met him with only understanding, even though he’d tried to keep secrets from her, and had only just separated from Hermione’s very dear friend. 

“You’re too good for Ron and me, you know,” Harry said ruefully, his heart bursting with love and appreciation. “What did we do to deserve all your thoughtfulness and patience? I’ll never know.”

“Yes, well, you have your good points. Even when you’re bickering.”

“Draco's hardly helping, he's being a git, and I know it. Ron’s not wrong, is the thing,” Harry acknowledged. “I’m sure I’d react the same if I found out Ron was carousing with Theo Nott or the like, and Nott didn’t nearly kill me.”

“Well, Nott, so my sources say, still has ties to Death Eater sympathisers or worse. Draco’s kept his nose clean.”

“You’re too generous by half.”

“I know,” Hermione allowed. “But he’s a good man, Harry. I believe that. I fancy I know better than most where people’s allegiances lie, and Draco’s name hasn’t come under suspicion even once in twenty years. I think his priorities are clear: his reputation, his career, and his son, and now, who knows, possibly you.”

There was no way Hermione was _just_ a diplomat. Harry had always sort of suspected this, but at moments like these it became painfully evident that the witch was keeping some secrets of her own.

“So you knew about his separation then?” Harry asked. 

“His divorce? Yes. It was kept rather hush-hush, but…”

“But you always know anything worth knowing before anyone else. Merlin, I didn’t even know if it was official or not, I’d never thought to ask.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione shook her head, presumably at his profound ineptitude when it came to...what? Communication? Asking the right questions? Knowing things?

He wiped a hand over his face and stared at her in awe. “How do you do it? Keep all these confidences? I couldn’t hide this from you for even one night.”

“You get used to it,” Hermione answered. “And I know my work keeps my family safe. I know when trouble is brewing, and I work to prevent it.”

Harry wrapped her in a bear hug. “You’re really something, Hermione Granger-Weasley, you know that?”

“I do,” Hermione agreed, hugging him back. “And I’ll work on Ron. He’ll come round.”

“He shouldn’t have to. Fred was killed. I know as well as anyone what side of the whole thing Draco was on, whether he wanted to be there or not. I’ve not forgotten. I realise it stinks of disloyalty and I can’t make that right, but...I don’t think I can’t give Draco up, either, even if I should. It’s a bloody mess.”

Hermione stepped back and gave Harry’s cheek a pat. “And when have our lives ever been neat and tidy? We’ve gotten through worse, and we’ll get through this. Your happiness is important to me, Harry. Especially after what Ginny did, no matter her reasons, I know it hurt you and I truly don’t believe you deserved it. You’re a good father and you were a good partner in so many ways. And you can be again, to Draco, maybe, or somebody else, someone who wants this life you’ve built.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Harry responded, feeling his throat tighten with emotion. 

Before Harry could find more words or step in to embrace her, there came the yelling of children, the clambering of footsteps and a girl’s cries filling the dining room, and Ron’s frantic bellow: “Get the hell away from her!”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then fled towards the commotion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO SO SO FREAKING MUCH to everyone who has read this and kudos'ed and left me the most generous fricking comments. I will never get over your kindness or your thoughtfulness and I'm more than a bit dependent on you for motivation. I honestly cannot say how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> An extra special thanks to my superlative beta, MimbelWimbel for her wise observations and willingness to discuss fic with me endlessly!


	24. Twenty-Four - Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CW: Spoilers ahead! Scroll past if you don't want to read.**  
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> More potential Ron bashing (this is as bad as it will get, promise!). Homophobic comments.

After Harry and Hermione had departed for the kitchen, Draco returned his attention to Remy. He ran a fingertip along one chubby cheek and was pleased when the baby latched onto his pinky with one sticky hand. Weasley was positively radiating with anger, and that was equally delightful. Oh, Draco was exasperated with Harry for being such a blundering idiot and not forewarning the Granger-Weasleys, but Draco thought he almost preferred it this way. Should they have had warning, Weasley would surely have been beaten into something resembling submission by his wife and his outrageous (and entertaining) outbursts would have been quelled. No, Draco preferred to appreciate the full breadth of his current situation.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Weasley declared from across the table. He was a big man, finally having grown into his gangly limbs, and he had a few inches on Harry. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, firm Auror muscles visible below the short sleeves of his T-shirt. It was a revolting display of aggressive masculinity, Draco determined.

“Oh?” Draco asked, keeping his tone light and amused, simply because he knew that would serve to rile up the childish man even further. 

“Yeah,” Weasley huffed. “Nothing but a bloody predator. He’s not got any money so I assume you must be going for fame or public adoration or something equally self-serving.”

“Must I?” Draco enquired smoothly. 

Weasley growled, actually growled, it was absurd. “Don’t play cute with me, arsehole.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Draco assured him with a wolfish grin. Remy finished his bottle and Draco placed it on the table, easing the infant onto his shoulder and rubbing small circles on his warm back. “Why don’t you tell me more about this little scheme of mine?”

“Preying on him when he’s fucking vulnerable. Insinuating yourself into his life. Caring for his kids—” 

“Ah yes, changing nappies and warming infant formula. I sound like quite the villain, Weasley, you’ve found me out.”

“How long do you plan on continuing this disgusting charade? Until you’ve got him trusting you enough that he publicly proclaims your innocence?”

“I’m not sure what I would need that for,” Draco replied coolly. “The Wizengamot cleared my name twenty years ago.”

“You know what I mean! You’ve twisted his perception already. Oh yes, poor pampered Malfoy, he couldn’t help but become a Death Eater, it wasn’t his fault!”

The accusation tugged at an insecurity buried behind Draco’s breastbone, and his upperhand felt suddenly unsteady. 

“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand, Weasley,” he countered, voice icy. “It’s not a good look.”

“And once you’ve got Harry convinced, you’ll what? Have him go to the press, redeem your shattered reputation?”

“I’ve redeemed it on my own, thanks very much,” Draco fired back. 

“Bullshit. Everyone knows what you are. Most of us aren’t so quick to forget.”

“Does your _mate_ know how little you think of his powers of discernment? Or how vulnerable to exploitation you believe him to be? I don’t suspect he’d appreciate this unflattering assessment of his intelligence or his ability, or lack thereof, to protect himself.” Draco knew Harry would _also_ not be pleased with this ridiculous quarrel, but he couldn’t help himself. The Weasel was being just an irritating, petty fool, determined to misjudge Draco’s intentions. Well, Draco wouldn’t stand for being defamed like this, not when he’d not done a bloody thing to deserve it in two long decades. 

“Shut your mouth,” Weasley hissed. “You don’t know a thing about him. You weren’t there, during the war. Too busy doing what? Being a little poof for the Death Eaters? Bet that really stoked morale, eh?”

He was sneering at the floral cuffs of Draco’s shirt and Draco felt a thrill of cold fury run through him at the accusation. 

“Does your family know about this hateful side of yours?” he asked, forcing himself to sound casual and unaffected, despite his raging heart. “Does Harry?”

“Don’t you fucking talk about him. You’ve not earned that. You haven’t seen what he’s been through or how he perseveres, despite everything you and yours tried to rain down on him. That he can still see any goodness in anyone at all is a damn miracle and it sickens me that he’s wasting that impulse on you.”

“I’m rather sure your little sister already maimed that part of him long before I came around,” Draco pointed out.

Weasley shot to his feet, his face burning in righteous anger. “Merlin help me, Malfoy, you’re a dead man—”

“What are you going to do?” Draco challenged, digging into the seat of Weasley’s anxieties surrounding the constancy of Harry's friendship. It was pathetically easy; his fears of inadequacy were just the same as they’d been at Hogwarts. “Beat me while I’m holding Potter’s baby? With your own children just outside in the garden? You think your wife will like that? You think Harry will? You’ve not been around all summer, who’s to say his allegiances haven’t shifted to someone more deserving.”

For a wild, charged moment, Draco thought Weasley was going to lunge across the dinner table at him, scattering plates and silverware onto the scuffed hardwood. The moment was interrupted, however, when a glass shattered in the next room, startling them both. Draco was the first to compose himself. 

“Alright, Potter?” he called out, keeping his voice only pleasant and concerned. 

Harry shouted back that everything was fine, and Draco returned to observing Weasley’s glowering aspect. 

“Honestly, it’s a bit tired, isn’t it?” Draco prompted. “This schoolyard intimidation nonsense? I’m here at Potter’s invitation and I’m not going anywhere.”

When he spoke, Weasley’s words were a hiss of incensed tension: “When I figure out how you’re pulling this off, tormenting Harry like this, whether it’s a potion or spell or just your particular brand of manipulation, you’re over, Malfoy. You’ll have to take your boy and leave the continent, if you’re not locked up by then, that is.”

The threat to Scorpius’ safety was a blow and Draco had to hold back from flinching. “Merlin’s tits, Weasley, this obsessive grudge is pathetic. I’ve apologised. I’ve admitted my wrong-doings. I’m contributing to society. I teach your daughter, for Merlin’s sake. I can’t imagine what it is you want, truly.”

“I _want_ you to leave Harry alone.”

“Oh, like _you_ did? He was shattered when I got here, you understand?” Draco felt the righteous fury of his words like oil in a hot skillet. “Let me tell you a little bit about how I found your friend, whom you’re suddenly so determined to protect. Let’s see. He’d not showered in days, or changed his clothes by the look of things. The children were subsisting off of beans with toast, the mortgage was going unpaid, and the housework was piling up. He was drowning, Weasley, and I at least bothered to lend a hand. _I_ did. And I did so out of human decency, asking nothing of him in return. Meanwhile, you were every bit as absent as his faithless wife. Don’t take your insufficiency out on me, you petty, insignificant little man—”

Face stormy, Weasley marched around the table, a finger pointed in Draco’s face, his mouth screwed up into an ugly snarl. Just then, a shout went up. A door slammed open and the babble of children’s voices sounded throughout the house. 

“Dad!” someone shouted. One of the girls was crying in great, racking sobs and footsteps pattered down the corridor, until all the children burst into the dining room. Draco turned to see the children all clustered before him, Rose at the front of the pack with her hand outstretched, an odd stepped shape to her wrist. It was clearly broken. 

Draco dealt with enough children to have splinting spells at the ready, and without thinking, he hurried to his feet and slid his wand from his sleeve, stepping towards the red-headed child whose face was blanched and streaked with tears. He pointed his wand at the girl, his other arm securing Remy to his shoulder. Before the spell left Draco’s lips, Weasley rushed forward toward his daughter, shouting at Draco to get the hell away. Harry and Hermione appeared in the doorway just as one of Ron’s broad, solid shoulders accidentally clipped Draco’s as he bolted towards Rose. 

Draco dropped his wand as he stumbled against a chair leg to his other side and that, along with Weasley’s momentum, forced him over. He scrambled to duck his head, but it was too late, and his forehead smacked brutally against the corner of a little side table. It was all he could do to cradle the baby to his chest, as Harry cried out, staring in panicked horror. 

Draco’s vision went stark black for a moment, then flashed back into focus, the lights and colours painfully keen and bright. He lay there stunned, his whole body curled around the shrieking infant. 

Suddenly, there was a wild crack of magic and Weasley was lifted off him, and slammed against the wall by an invisible force. Framed portraits of sunny vacations shuddered with the impact and their occupants fled. 

“Rosie, love, come here,” Hermione was urgently instructing, ignoring Weasley rasping and struggling from his position, his feet dangling a few feet off the ground. Harry’s eyes were bright with ferocity. “Jamie, take the rest of the children to the drawing room. Now, please.”

“Come on, you lot,” Jamie barked, puffed up with all the self-importance that comes with being relied upon in a crisis. He corralled the wide-eyed children away from the absolute spectacle that was their parents. 

“Harry, if you would be so kind as to release my husband before he suffocates, I would truly appreciate it. And then perhaps you could see to Remy and help the professor to his feet?” Hermione continued her crisp, rapid-fire directions. Her voice was sharp and clear as it rang through the air to bring order to the pandemonium. 

Harry shook his head as if coming out of a daze. His spell broke and Ron crashed to the ground where he remained: slumped groaning against the wall. Harry didn't register the response, his focus fixed solely on Draco and the small, screaming bundle to which he clung.

When Harry reached them, Draco realised they were trembling, he and Harry both. Nevertheless, he managed to pass off Remy without dropping him. Harry checked the baby over, but Remy seemed more startled than anything, and calmed somewhat once he was settled in Harry’s arms, although his thin, reedy cries continued.

Beside them, Hermione briskly healed her daughter’s fracture, her mouth a thin line of anger. 

“There, Rosie darling, all better?” she asked, forcing some sweetness into her voice. Rose shot a worried look towards her father. “He’ll be fine,” Hermione promised. 

“Why did Daddy think Professor Malfoy was going to hurt me?” Rose asked. 

“That’s an excellent question,” Hermione replied. She turned her fierce expression on her husband. “Ronald? Care to explain?” she demanded grimly.

Weasley was rubbing at his chest like he’d just been trampled by Thestrals. “I didn’t know what he was going to do,” he muttered lamely. 

“I was going to splint her wrist, you absolute imbecile,” Draco snapped, bringing tentative fingers to the lump pulsing unpleasantly above his right eye. Harry caught sight of the gesture and sent Draco a worried look. Draco waved it off. “Remy alright, Potter?”

Harry shifted back to examine his son a second time. “I think so.”

“Let me take a look,” Hermione insisted, stepping close. She smiled calmly at the little lad, and he gurgled back at her. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “He seems fine, and crying is a good sign, but best not to risk it with babies. You should probably take him to St. Mungo’s just to be safe.”

“Harry, mate,” Ron piped in, breathlessly, “I’m so sorr—”

“Get out,” Harry growled. “He was holding my _child_ Ron, my _baby_. What the fuck were you thinking being so careless?”

“I wasn’t. I was going for Rosie. It was an accident, I—”

“Out!” Harry bellowed. “Now!”

Ron scrambled to his feet, coughing, and scurried from the room, sending a furtive glance at his wife, who looked nearly as furious as Harry. 

Rose curled into her mother’s side, and Hermione pressed a kiss to the girl’s bushy orange hair. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Harry mumbled. “I knew this was a rotten idea, but I’d hoped...well.”

Draco forced himself to a standing position, relying overmuch on the side table to support him. His stomach lurched threateningly. 

“Alright?” Harry asked him.

“Fine,” Draco ground out, although he wasn’t totally sure it was the truth. “Get Remy taken care of. Granger and I can watch the children.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, but he didn’t move. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Draco felt Hermione’s eyes on them, and he glanced her way. She blushed and looked away. Heavens above, Potter was about as subtle as an oncoming train. Of course he’d blathered their business to her the moment they’d been alone. Draco went to roll his eyes, but that brought another wave of nausea over him and he shuddered through it. 

“Harry, check on the other children, will you? Make sure they’re not too stirred up by all the commotion?” 

Harry gave a shaky nod. “Yeah,” he agreed, “as soon as I see to Draco’s head.”

Hermione shifted her attention back to her daughter. “Yes, alright. I’ll prepare a cold compress. Come on, Rosie,” she said, taking her daughter by the hand which had not suffered the injury. “The blueberry crumble should be just about ready, and I think Uncle Harry has some ice cream to go with it. And you can tell me all about what happened.”

Rose sniffed but allowed herself to be led towards the kitchen. “It was nobody’s fault, Mummy. I was just climbing the fence, but only because Hugo threw a ball over it on purpose, and then I slipped over the top and I…”

The girl’s voice trailed off as the two disappeared into the kitchen and Harry and Draco found themselves alone. The moment the two were out of sight, Harry came to him, his hand flying to Draco’s forehead. Harry delicately traced the painful bump. “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he murmured. Draco fought down the urge to bat his hand away. Potter needed to fuss, that was his way. “I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled, but I never dreamed he’d—”

“It’s fine,” Draco repeated, capturing Harry’s hand in his own. He pressed Harry’s fingers to his lips, kissing them quickly. Pulling away, he thought he spied a faint white tattoo on the back of Harry’s hand. Writing maybe? He couldn’t make it out and now certainly wasn’t the time. He told himself he would bring it up later. “I’m fine, I promise. Go. Make sure Remy’s seen to. We’ll be fine here. This isn’t your fault.”

“Are you absolutely certain—”

“Potter,” Draco interrupted, swaying slightly with a rush of vertigo, “as much as I appreciate your attention, I’ll appreciate it a lot more once I know Remy is unharmed. Understood?”

“Yeah,” Harry conceded, taking a quick peek at the baby in the crook of his arm. He stepped in and pressed a brief kiss to Draco’s mouth. “You’ll stay? Please?”

“Yes,” Drace whispered in exasperation. “Go!”

Harry _Accio_ ’d the baby change bag which came hurtling down the hall and smacked against his side. He gave Draco a final, anxious kiss, then obediently scarpered off to the drawing room. 

Through the wall, Draco heard the clamorous questioning begin as soon as Harry came within view of the children:

“Where’d Daddy go, Uncle Harry? He wouldn’t say a word, just charged past us like a bull!”

“Is Remy alright?”

“How’s Rosie’s arm?”

Draco couldn’t catch the individual words of Harry’s response, but the other man did seem to take a moment to answer their questions. His voice was low and kind, as it always was when his children were upset. Soon though, his voice was gone and the kids returned to their previous conversation, speaking over each other in an excited buzz. Draco sat himself down at the table in an attempt to ease his dizziness. 

Over Draco’s head, five side plates of crumble and ice cream floated by. 

“Pudding’s here!” Jamie announced from the drawing room. “Let’s eat it in the garden, it’s stuffy in here with the damn fire going.”

Seemingly in agreement, the rest of the children followed suit and soon the house was quiet once more. Rose appeared across the table from him, holding her own plate. 

“How’s your wrist?” he asked. 

“Better,” she replied. “Mum’s pretty good at that spell by now. Hugo’s forever climbing things he shouldn’t. I ought to have known better, but I’ve not learned the summoning spell yet and Jamie’s too cross to do much of anything and Al and Scorpius had disappeared round the side of the house and Hugo was getting all pouty like he does before he really goes off and I thought his shrieking and stomping would only serve to make Jamie crosser so I had to get the ball! So it really wasn’t my fault—”

Draco raised a palm to stop the explanation, which felt like half-protest, half-confession. It was typical of the girl, really. Being accused of any misbehaviour at school would set her rambling and pointing fingers at those who she perceived to be the true culprits of the misdeed in question. “I’ve no interest in assigning blame,” he assured her. 

She stared at him for a long moment and Draco couldn’t think what she wanted.

“I think you’ll find the other children in the garden,” he offered. 

Rose furrowed her eyebrows, examining him carefully. 

“You weren’t going to hurt me, were you, Professor?”

“Certainly not,” Draco promised. “I’ve been a professor at Hogwarts for a great many years now, Miss Granger-Weasley, and I’ve not raised a wand to a student in anger even once in that time, and I don’t intend to.”

Rose scoured his face for another long moment, but she must have been satisfied with what she saw there because she gave a single nod and left, heading towards the garden. 

Shortly afterwards, Granger reappeared. Well, Granger-Weasley, he supposed, but that was a mouthful he didn’t have the capacity for just now, not with the incessant drumming in his head. Floating jauntily before her were two more plates of pudding, along with a teapot, a sugar pot, a little pitcher of cream, and two mugs, some cutlery and a makeshift cold compress. The whole array plopped down on the dining room table. Hermione waved the rest of the dinner dishes away with the air of a woman who didn’t have time or patience for household chores. 

“Well, Malfoy,” she addressed him, sliding into a chair across from him. “Quite the bump you’ve got there. You know where you are? No memory loss?”

He picked up the little bag of ice, clearly spelled to keep from leaking, and applied it to his aching forehead with a nod of gratitude. “Eiderdown End, knocked over by your brute of a husband.”

Granger just looked tired. “As furious as I am with Ron,” she began, “and believe me, I’m plenty furious, I somehow doubt he got himself worked up like that all on his own.”

Draco glanced at one blush-coloured floral cuff. It turned out couture was the least of his concerns this evening. He considered not answering her, but he doubted his ability to dupe a member of the wizarding intelligence—diplomat, like hell—especially with a damned head injury. 

“Perhaps not,” he relented. “He’s...rather easy to goad. He was rude. I thought I’d have a little fun.”

Granger gave him a look of pure exasperation. “Of course you did.”

Draco shrugged sullenly. “I’m not pleased with how he’s neglected Potter.”

“Aren’t you?” Granger scoffed. “Seems like our so-called _neglect_ gave you an opportunity to put down some unexpected roots in Harry’s life.”

Draco turned his attention to a brushed platinum cufflink, cursing Potter inwardly. What had he expected though, really? Potter was about as inconspicuous as a boulder on a railway track. “He shouldn’t have told you that,” he said finally. “It’s our business.”

“Oh, please, you weren’t exactly subtle.” She passed one of the servings of crumble across the tablecloth. Draco wasn’t sure he could stomach sweets just now, not with his head still swimming like it was. “Tea?”

“Mm, please. Black.”

Hermione filled one of the mugs and passed it to him. Draco took a small sip, then sat back and closed his eyes. He felt Granger’s gaze on him but she didn’t speak. He heard the scrape of her fork against porcelain as she ate her crumble. 

“Are you going to vomit?”

“I don’t believe so, no. A little nauseous is all.”

“You’ll go to St. Mungo’s if you do?” she said it like a question, but they both knew it wasn’t. Granger didn’t make suggestions, she gave orders. Draco thought he rather liked that about her. 

He nodded slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” she stated frankly and without excuses. “Ron shouldn’t have been so thoughtless.”

“I’ll be fine,” Draco assured her. “It’s Remy I’m peeved about.”

“Yes, me as well. What a damned irresponsible thing to do.”

Draco shrugged. “He thought I was going to hurt his daughter. Had it been Scorpius, I might have done the same.”

“Well, it was a stupid thing to think. You’re her teacher, for goodness’ sakes.”

“I’m aware.”

Granger poured herself a cup of tea. Draco forced his eyes open, looking at her empty plate and his own full one, the ice cream melting into a puddle converting the crumble into a little island with steep, treacherous fjords. Harry would want him to take a few bites at least. He toyed with his fork. 

“Harry’s...fragile,” Granger confessed finally, looking as though she’d lost an internal debate. “We’ve been worried. We didn’t know what to do. Before that day I ran into you both in Diagon Alley, we’d not seen him since the kids came home from school. We shouldn’t have neglected him so, you’re right, and I know it, but with Harry it’s always the same: He can be so proud and stubborn, and he really had iced us out.”

“Hm,” was Draco’s only response.

“You’re just as impossible, I see,” she commented dryly. “But what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you were here. We couldn’t be and you were.” She paused then, her intelligent brown eyes searching his, before continuing. “He’s better, I think, or getting there, and I’m grateful to you for that.”

Draco didn’t like the warmth the praise stoked just behind his ribs. “It’s fine.”

“I...please just tell me you’re not just trifling with him. These things are never superficial, not for Harry, he doesn’t work like that. I’m sure you’ve seen the headlines about his childhood. He’d never say as much, but I truly believe that all he’s ever wanted is a bit of stability. I could shake Ginny for taking that from him.”

“Where is she?” Draco demanded, hoping to catch Granger off guard. She only shook her head. 

“I can’t tell you that.”

“It was heartless what she did.”

“Plenty of people would agree with you,” Granger conceded. She took a deliberate sip of her tea with her calm gaze still fixed on him, watching and waiting. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Draco forced himself to take a small bite of the crumble. The fresh blueberries were warm and tinged with the tartness of early harvest. The dessert felt heavy as he swallowed it down. 

“Very well. I’m not trifling, at least I don’t believe I am. It’s nothing so flippant as that,” he said, finally. “Only what it is instead, I can’t yet say. You know probably better than most of my sham of a marriage, and yet it was still the closest thing I’ve had to anything that could be called a relationship. I’ve not the experience to say how these things ought to progress.”

“I see,” Granger said, stirring a bit of sugar into her tea. 

“This...with Potter and I…We...” The false starts clogged Draco’s throat and he tried to clear them away with a swallow of hot tea. When he did speak, the words came out in a humiliating rush: “I’ll admit it feels like it could be something. But beyond that I couldn’t tell you,” Draco informed her, cursing the flush he felt bloom high on his cheeks. “Because I don’t rightly know myself. I am, however, _trying_. Trying to do right by him, by the children, and, also by myself, I’ll not deny that." Granger’s expression was neutral, but non-judgmental, and it somehow invited such confidences, and so he continued. "And yet my selfishness, which I would suspect is present in anyone in such matters—we don’t pursue people for purely altruistic purposes—is the only aspect of all this your husband can appreciate. He is convinced I’m pursuing some mad schemes to corrupt and abuse Harry. And it seemed so ludicrous that I played into his foolishness, for a lark. He cast me so easily in the role of villain that I thought, why not have a bit of fun? Why show him courtesy if he wasn’t willing to do the same? But it’s nothing insidious, Granger. I almost wish it was.” He gave a dry laugh. “Then at least I’d be treading familiar ground.”

The witch gave him a thoughtful smile then, warm and affectionate. She reached across and squeezed his hand. Draco wasn’t used to a great deal of touch outside of his very select circle, but he didn’t pull away. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For telling me that.”

“I can’t...promise anything. I’ve no idea if I’ll be good for him or if us working together will end in utter disaster, but I don't wish him any ill. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t wish that. He’s been through enough, and so have the kids. I know that.” He let out a tense breath, feeling suddenly laid bare. “Merlin, Granger, did you put Veritaserum in this tea?”

The witch gave him a cunning grin, then chuckled. “Sadly, I left my supply of that particular potion at the office. No, Draco, I suspect that you just needed someone to tell, and I happened to be here. We all need that, at one time or another.”

“Well, hopefully that’s not an urge I experience too often,” he gave a faux shudder. “Horrid.”

**_/// ///_ **

Granger’s youngest passed out on the couch in the drawing room, likely from all the bellowing and hooting he’d been doing that evening. While Granger was busy tucking the child in, Draco recruited Scorpius and Al to help tidy the kitchen while Lily prepared for bed. He’d likewise tasked Rose and James with putting away the skittles game still sprawled across the garden lawn.

He checked his pocket watch. Potter had left ninety minutes ago, and he ought to be home by now. Merlin, if something had happened to Remy, Draco would have Weasley’s head, so help him. But no, more likely it was just a busy evening in St. Mungo’s A&E, and a baby in no apparent distress was unlikely to jump the queue, even if it was Harry Potter’s baby. Although, Draco thought, knowing Harry, he’d likely cast a disguise of sorts, not wanting special treatment or some rot. The man really was nauseatingly noble. 

“Are you going to read with me and Auntie Hermione, Professor?” Lily demanded from the doorway to the kitchen. Draco was icing his head and flicking his wand to aid in the clean up, with Al experimentally emulating the spells and Scorpius offering helpful corrections to his friend’s wandwork. Al seemed to take them in stride, eager only to perfect the task, and not at all defensive like his elder brother could be. 

Lily was wearing old flannel pyjamas in a green and brown pattern. They were too big for her, and Draco suspected they were probably hand-me downs from Al or James, or potentially both. 

“Hm, if you brush your teeth and get my squid pouffe ready for me,” he conceded. 

“It’s a _giant_ squid pouffe, actually,” Lily informed him. 

“Of course, how foolish of me. My giant squid pouffe, then.”

“Yes, alright!” Lily said and skipped off down the hall. 

“Is Remy alright, do you think?” Al asked, watching as a series of clean dinner plates clattered into place in a cupboard. “Shouldn’t Dad be home by now?”

Draco didn’t let on that he was having similar concerns. 

“Remy seemed perfectly well when they left,” he asserted instead. “It was just a precaution, so let’s assume the best until we have reason to do otherwise.”

Al didn’t appear fully convinced, but he accepted Draco’s word with a shrug and turned to survey the kitchen. “I think that’s most of it. Can Scor and I go to my room now? He’s beat me at chess twice now, and I’m due a win.”

The room was satisfactorily tidied so Draco nodded his permission and, with a reminder of their discussion that afternoon, dismissed them. 

“Um, you go ahead, Al,” Scorpius said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yeah, alright,” Al acquiesced. “I’ll set up the board.”

“Sure,” Scorpius nodded and Al headed off down the hallway. Draco waited patiently for his son to find the words to articulate whatever it was that was troubling him. 

The question burbled forth eventually: “Why did Mr. Weasley think you’d hurt Rose?”

Scorpius’ small face was drawn with concern and Draco silently reprimanded himself. He attempted to be honest with his son, but Merlin, how was he supposed to admit that he’d given into his baser instincts and goaded the Weasel because it was a bit of spiteful fun and he’d thought he could get away with it? Maybe Harry was right and Draco hadn’t reformed nearly as much as he liked to think. 

“I don’t think he did, not really,” Draco said finally. “He and I were mid-argument when you all burst in, and I think a large part of his reaction was in relation to those feelings more than the actual situation at hand.” 

This response did nothing to soothe Scorpius’ worries, from the furrow of the boy’s brow. “What were you arguing about?”

“Nothing of consequence. Old war time wounds.”

“But that was ages ago.”

“I know, dearest, but it doesn’t feel like ages ago to those who lost someone. One of the Weasley boys was killed in action and I’m not certain that is something people ever fully heal from.”

“And he blames you for that?”

“In part.”

Scorpius looked torn. There was clearly another question buzzing in his brain, but not one to which he felt confident giving voice.

Draco gave him a small smile of understanding. “You know you may ask me anything about that time. I’ll not be cross.”

“Was it your fault?” Scorpius whispered. 

Draco didn’t know how to have this conversation with his child. He leaned back across the counter and considered the question. Weasley had any number of things to blame Draco for, and rightly so, but at the same time, Draco was so fucking tired of defending himself from his past. No matter how polite and respectful his coworkers were, or his students’ parents, or even shop clerks, he could always tell what they were really thinking: _Death Eater_ , _bigot_ , _coward._ Weasley was just saying what every decent citizen was always thinking. Everyone, except perhaps Potter. Potter, who had sacrificed the most, who had sacrificed, if the whispered rumours were to be believed, part of his own soul, who had the most reason to despise him, had instead accepted Draco’s growth at face-value and believed him. And Harry’s belief in Draco seemed nearly contagious, since Granger was now following suit, and together their confidence felt like a first gasp of fresh air after a dust storm. 

Draco returned to his son’s question. Was it in any way Draco’s fault that Fred Weasley was dead? Draco had worked hard not to bury himself in guilt. Guilt was not productive, or helpful, he knew that, but he could never fully shake it, either. “No, I am thankfully blameless in that. I suspect it is more what or who I represented that angers him still.” Was what he settled on. “I walked free despite my transgressions, and I suspect it is hard for Mr. Weasley to watch me have opportunities his brother never will.”

“I would think that would make him sad, not angry,” Scorpius pondered. 

“Yes, well, we all have our way of dealing with things,” Draco sighed, readjusting his compress. “Besides, it likely doesn’t help that Weasley and I never got on in school. I think perhaps it can be easy to revert to old patterns if one is not vigilant.”

Scorpius looked like he still had more he wanted to puzzle through, but Lily called out for Draco who, like a coward, took the excuse to end the conversation. 

“Please don’t worry yourself, my love,” Draco said, squeezing Scorpius’ shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. “Sometimes adults misbehave, but we’ll make up, at least for Mr. Potter’s sake, I’m sure.”

_**/// ///** _

Potter came home when Granger, Rose, Lily, and Draco were all packed into Lily’s room for a bedtime story. While initially a bit shy about it, Rose had given into Lily’s pestering, and agreed to re-enact a lively rendition of _The Two Sisters_ folktale alongside her cousin. Granger had magicked their pyjamas into glittering, Medieval gowns, and the girls had clutched bouquets of transfigured flowers that really had no role in the story so far as Draco had been able to make out. 

“Sometimes Rosie and I pretend we’re sisters, since we both have flower names,” Lily had announced as she selected the storybook off her shelf with great solemnity. “And because we’re cursed with nothing but brothers, like Mum. ” A shadow crossed her face then, as if she’d momentarily forgotten of her mother’s betrayal. “But anyway, a cousin’s the next best thing, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Draco had assured her. He’d not thought it would be worth getting into how Edward Lupin was the closest thing Draco had to a living cousin, and how he knew the young man only as a student and now, he supposed, as Harry’s godson. Draco’d never pressed the family connection. He’d assumed being a Malfoy relation would not be something of which one would be proud. At that thought, Draco had shaken his head and turned his attention back to the story. 

Draco was the first to register Potter’s arrival, mid-performance. Now, the man was leaning tiredly against the doorframe, absorbing the scene of Granger cross-legged on the bed and the girls gesturing with gusto as they read the evil Sorceress' lines aloud. Remy was sound asleep in the crook of Harry’s arm and the baby change bag was discarded on the floor, propped up by his ankle. Harry met Draco’s gaze and gave a half smile, indicating clearly enough that there was nothing amiss with the baby. Harry mouthed a silent ‘thank you,’ but before Draco could think of a response beyond the flushing of his cheeks, Lily turned towards the doorway and let out a happy shriek.

“Daddy! Is Remy alright?” Lily exclaimed, as Hermione issued a similar greeting. 

“Yes, pumpkin, he’s right as rain.”

“Dad!” Lily hissed. “Don’t call me that, I’m not a baby!”

Harry looked saddened for a moment, as though the thought of his children growing up was physically painful to him. Then he just smiled. “Sorry, love. Have I missed the show?”

“The first bit was just dress rehearsal,” Lily determined. “Sit, Daddy, here!” She built him a throne of pillows to the right of Draco’s giant squid, which Harry gladly took. Draco reached out for the sleeping baby, and was quietly pleased when Potter relinquished him. Draco fitted Remy into his lap with one hand, still pressing the compress to his head with the other. Both Draco and Harry leaned back against the side of the bed, and Harry stretched out his long legs, shifting to let his upper arm press ever so slightly into Draco’s.

Lily cleared her throat and announced the story’s title, juggling the flowers and the book awkwardly. Then, the two girls proceeded to retell the simple plot with great gusto, a lot of giggling, and an exorbitant amount of swishing of their voluminous skirts. 

When the production at last came to an end, Harry applauded loudly, whole-heartedly commending his daughter and niece for their performances. 

“Very well done,” Granger agreed from the bed. “Brilliant! Stunning! Such commitment!”

The girls’ heads then swiveled towards Draco. He realised in horror they were awaiting praise from him, as well. 

“Oh,” he swallowed. “Ah. Very...energetic.”

Thankfully, his faint praise was taken at face value and was not too deeply examined by the would-be thespians. Grinning, Rose and Lily offered an encore of one of the little rhymes from the same book, but at last it was time for bed.

“Alright, LiLu,” Harry said, once the girls had finished taking their final bows. “Auntie Hermione has to take Rose and Hugo home now, so say your goodbyes, please.” He and Granger stood up, to hurry this process along. 

With a wave of Granger’s wand, the flowers resumed their true shapes as a pair of stuffed Hippogriffs, and the gowns faded, leaving the girls in what they’d been wearing previously. Rose blushed, clearly a little embarrassed in getting caught up in this bit of kids’ stuff, especially in front of her teacher. She edged towards the bookcase, pretending to be suddenly very interested in the titles there.

After some wheedling and whining from Lily about how she never got to have sleepovers and how it was dreadfully unfair, and after Harry had promised to make up for it once the boys were away at school, Lily made the rounds. She hugged Granger, then Rose, and then, as if it were perfectly routine, made her way over to Draco, until she was standing before his giant squid pouffe with an expectant expression and outstretched arms. 

Giving Harry a look that was far too close to wide-eyed terror for Draco’s own pride, he froze. Lily didn’t seem to register his hesitation, instead simply wrapping her arms around his neck with affectionate ease, not stepping in so close as to crush the baby. Draco flailed awkwardly, dropping the cold compress to the ground and gave the small girl’s back a pat, his limb feeling more like a block of wood than anything belonging to a human body. Over her shoulder, Draco caught Granger and Harry looking at him with matching expressions of fond amusement. He flicked them a two-fingered salute behind Lily’s back, grateful that Rose was still too busy examining the bookcase to notice the gesture. 

“Goodnight, Professor,” Lily announced, ending the embrace and dipping down to kiss her brother. “Goodnight, Remy. Daddy, will you stay and sing?”

“Of course, sweetpea. I’ll just see Auntie Hermione and the kids off, how about, and then I’ll pop back to say goodnight properly.”

At last, Lily seemed appeased and scampered into her bed. Draco rose and cleared his throat. He knew his face was burning, so he simply grunted his goodbyes and made his way to the kitchen, wondering how severely Potter would scold him for drinking whisky with a head injury.

Stuff it, he might just risk it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. It was so wonderful to hear from you all, it meant so much to me! (It always does and it always did. Comments NEVER lose their novelty!)
> 
> Major thanks to my sharp-minded beta, MimbelWimbel for her many, many efforts on this chapter!!!


	25. Twenty-Five - Harry

With Hermione and her kids gone, and Lily finally tucked in, Harry found Draco seated in the drawing room, a glass of whisky in his hand. Besides the pink, swollen lump above one eye, not a hair on Draco's head was out of place. There was nothing to suggest he'd been knocked arse over tip a couple of hours earlier. Remy was on the sofa beside him, propped up by the cushion at his back. The baby was sucking on an unfamiliar teething rag attached to a wooden ring, despite the fact he’d not yet shown any signs of needing such a thing. 

“Now, where’d you find that?” Harry asked the baby. Remy smiled at him, a long string of drool falling to his onesie as he did. 

“We went through a cubby together,” Draco supplied, nodding to the corner where a few square shelves sat stuffed with toys and baby things. Most were gifts, Harry assumed. Merlin, the baby shower felt like a lifetime ago, but he could still picture the scene: Ginny, pale but smiling, one hand on her belly, soldiering through the event, laughing, and pretending everything was normal. Had she known then, Harry wondered, that this life was not the one she wanted? Had she told him as much in her own way? Why hadn’t Harry seen it? 

He remembered that evening: tidying up the mess of colourful paper and tags, Ginny asking him if he’d made a list of the gifts so she could send off thank-you notes, his reply that he had. It felt very much like all their days: affectionate smiles and ease and the comfort of routine. She had been tired, certainly, but that was hardly unusual with pregnancy, but there must have been something else there. Harry thought about Hermione’s words from the kitchen, her chiding him for his obliviousness. What signals had he missed? And what’s more, how could he stop himself from missing them again?

“Keep scowling and that,” Draco pressed a fingertip between his own eyebrows to demonstrate, “will become permanent.”

“Huh?” Harry asked, not fully registering the words. 

“Sit, Potter.”

Harry nodded absently and sat down on the other sofa, facing Draco and Remy. 

“Well?” Draco prompted, sipping his Firewhisky. 

“You shouldn’t have that,” Harry deflected, motioning to Draco’s glass. “Your head.” The swelling had gone down somewhat, thanks to Hermione’s cold compress, but it still looked painful enough to make Harry grimace.

“Hm, I think my head is precisely why I should have it,” Draco countered. “Is that what you’re developing premature wrinkles over? Concern for my health?”

“What?” Harry blinked, not quite grasping the comment. His brain felt slow, a few seconds behind real time. It was as if the evening had stretched on for days: the anxiety over Draco’s appearance, Ron’s response, coming clean to Hermione, Rose’s arm and Draco’s head, and Remy and the hospital, and on and on—and it was not yet half eight. 

Draco’s features softened. “Alright, Potter?” he asked, sounding more diverted than concerned. 

“Yes, fine. Fine. Just tired.”

“What were you thinking of just then?”

Harry sighed again. Everything felt laborious and looming. He knew he owed Draco an explanation for his idiocy, and they had a million other things to discuss on top of that, but even identifying where to start was a Herculean effort. 

“I was...Merlin,” Harry ran a frazzled hand through his hair, then self-consciously smoothed it down again. It was a futile effort. “I was thinking about Ginny. Is that weird to tell you?”

“That depends,” Draco replied dryly. “I’ll be rather put out if you made me withstand this evening only for you to tell me you’re patching things back up.”

The quip made Harry give a cynical laugh. “No, no,” he promised. “Nothing like that. I...well, I’m not thrilled with her for leaving me, but I’m certain I must carry part of the blame.” He held a hand up to silence Draco’s protests. “No really, I must. I accept that. Thing is, I just don’t know how to keep from fucking up all over again.” He stopped, trying to get to the point. “I suppose I keep thinking I’ll grow out of making daft mistakes, and then I don’t, and my lack of judgment this evening was a prime example. You’ve every right to be angry, you know.”

“Oh, I know I do,” Draco affirmed. “And I was, rather, when I first arrived. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate and it put both the Granger-Weasleys and me in an awkward position.”

“Yeah,” Harry accepted the airing of grievances. “It was, and I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, I got over it rather quickly, or perhaps I directed that energy towards tormenting Weasley,” Draco admitted. “Thus proving it a myth that we become flawless, reason-driven machines upon achieving a certain age.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated. “I don’t know what I was thinking, not telling them.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s so,” Draco contradicted. “I suppose you were thinking I wouldn’t come tonight. It would have been embarrassing for you to have to explain my absence had you previously announced your expectations for my attendance. You were concerned about how they would perceive me if I didn’t arrive, and how they would perceive you for believing I would.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed mournfully. “But like I said, daft. I’d hoped I’d not have to get into things fully if you just popped into the drawing room. That perhaps social pleasantries or something would propel us forward and we’d all tacitly pretend the circumstances were perfectly normal. But Ron’s never been one for subtlety. And besides, I should've known better than to have thought I could withstand Hermione’s scrutiny. Nothing’s changed in that regard, by the way. I don’t know if she mentioned anything to you, but she figured us out in all of half an hour. She’ll not say anything, I’m sure of it.” In his lap, Harry’s fingers clenched and unclenched. He was still frustrated with himself, and embarrassed. “I should have been upfront with them. I know it. I just lost my damn nerve. Not sure when I became such a coward.”

Draco gave him a slow smile. He shifted, crossing his legs at the knee. The movement made the ice cubes clink in his glass. “I’m hardly the person to ask on subjects of morality, but I can appreciate a degree of self-preservation, especially when one is feeling particularly vulnerable.”

Harry shot him a half hopeful, half rueful grin in response. “So you’re not still angry?”

“Is that worrying you?” Draco remarked, quirking his head to the side, curious.

“It…” Harry started hesitantly. He realised he didn’t rightly know, himself. “It wasn’t, not really. You seemed happy enough when I got home from St. Mungo’s.”

“I was. I am.”

“But that’s the thing, now, isn’t it?” Harry urged. “You seemed fine, so I assumed you were. And yet Gin seemed happy enough too, and it’s only now I’m realising that I missed probably 99% of her hints. And so I find myself completely doubting whether or not I can correctly, you know, read the room, or what have you. Like, what if you’re pissed and I simply have no idea?”

Draco scoffed. “Oh, I don’t make a show of shrouding my emotions. If you’ve angered me, you’ll be sure to hear about it.”

“That...would be good,” Harry ventured. “I don’t like guessing.”

Still unsettled with the ideas he was unbottling, Harry propped his feet up on the squat coffee table between them and sighed. “It’s like this: When I was a kid, Molly Weasley read some nonsense piece in a magazine about Hermione jilting me in love or some rubbish and instead of just asking us about it, she was really rather horrid to Hermione. Jamie’s a bit like that now, too. He’ll spend days chewing on something I’ve done or some throwaway comment I’ve made, gathering self-righteous anger around him like a great billowing cloak, interpreting everything I do as a mark against me, and further evidence of injustice for him to hurl at me later. It’s about as charming as it sounds. You know what I mean?”

“I believe so, yes,” Draco confirmed.

Harry crossed his ankles restlessly, trying to sort out just what he was hoping to get at here. 

“Ginny hated that tendency,” he continued. “She was always on about the silent treatment being an emotionally manipulative and small minded tactic and no substitute for open communication and all that. When we were first married, she was very frank about things, chiding me and being a good sport even when I was forgetful or distracted or untidy.”

“Sounds shockingly reasonable,” Draco offered.

“I thought so,” Harry shrugged. “But over the past year...something changed. She didn’t ice me out or anything, and she harped on me less about my bad habits than she ever had before. Instead, it was almost as though she decided she wasn’t going to be fussed about things like that any more. Even when I’d do something really thoughtless—like…”

Harry cut himself off, grabbling for a concrete example which could illustrate the shift in his and Ginny’s dynamic. 

“Let me see if I can’t put it another way,” he started again. “Okay, here’s an instance of what I mean: It was Lily’s birthday in May, and the evening before the big day, I forgot to pick up a birthday card for her, even though Ginny had asked me to at least three times because she was stuck at home with the baby. Of course neither of us realised we were still cardless until it was too late and we had to have Al sketch something up instead, which Lily, of course, was less than thrilled with, since she always prefers bright-coloured store-bought rubbish which explodes glitter upon opening, or what have you. 

“Thing was, I was expecting at least a cross word, I deserved it, but Ginny just shrugged and forced a smile and told me not to worry. It was unnerving, somehow, but when I asked if everything was alright, she gave me that same horrible smile and said she was just tired, and carried Remy down the hall to our room. Something was off, I knew it was, but she was pretending as though it weren’t, and I couldn’t break through that facade.”

Harry paused. He was certain it was odd to be divulging this intimate slice of married life to someone...new. But if Draco was bothered, he didn’t show it. Instead, his flinty eyes were fixed on Harry, his expression assessing and interested. Draco was like that though, always analysing, always strategizing. It used to drive Harry spare when they were kids: He’d been certain the Slytherin was cooking up some cruel taunt or vicious plot, and to Harry’s credit, the other boy usually was. It wasn’t like that now, though. Now, Draco’s intelligence, his meticulousness and careful attention made Harry feel so moderate and steady, like any problem they encountered would have a reasonable solution, if only they took a moment to identify it.

Harry licked his lips. “Sorry, I’m not sure if I’m making sense.”

“On the contrary,” Draco assured him. “You’re making perfect sense.”

“Right,” Harry swallowed. “Well. I’m wondering now if Ginny was trying to convince herself—and me too, I suppose—that she was happy when really she wasn’t. The further out I get, the more I realise that she wasn’t happy at all. In fact, I believe she was profoundly miserable. And all I want to know is when she started feeling that way, and what caused it, and why on earth she thought she couldn't tell me. Sorry, are you sure you don’t mind hearing about all this?” 

“It sounds rather foundational to your current state, so no, I do not mind at all. I’m trying to get to know you better, Potter, therefore understanding what happened is relevant to my interests,” Draco determined. 

“Yeah, alright,” Harry agreed uncertainly. “But if it gets to be like, information overload, promise you’ll stop me?”

“It won’t, but I will.”

“Alright. Well, I don’t think it ever crossed my mind to just straight up ask her if she was happy, because other than a few times like I just mentioned, I assumed she was. Probably because _I_ was, you know, pretty ridiculously content. The kids were exhausting but so much fun and so clever and bursting with energy and ideas, and work wasn’t the most exciting thing ever, but I was decent at it, and Gin was there and we’d been together since we were kids, basically, and everything was so...beautifully mundane. I know it sounds quaint and small and terribly dull, but it was just what I’d hoped my life would be.”

“I can imagine that might be preferable to having annual assassination attempts,” Draco considered. 

Harry gave a bark of laughter. “Much more preferable,” he echoed. “Yes.”

“I’m biased in this situation, clearly, so I’m not sure if my opinion would be welcome…” Draco began. 

“Oh, like you’d hold back, anyway,” Harry joked. It was always remarkable how easy this was, talking to Draco Malfoy in the drawing room of Harry’s family home. The conversation would grow and shift, and Draco, who Harry had always thought of as terribly judgmental, would put that impulse away, at least when it came to serious matters, and simply listen. It was nice, Harry thought, to talk to someone who wouldn’t just paste on a smile and pat his cheek and tell him not to worry himself like Ginny had those last few weeks, or was it months? 

“It seems to me,” Draco began levelly, “that you aren’t giving yourself enough credit when it comes to your ability to intuit how others are feeling. You did recognise that something was changing. You attempted to confront it, even if you were not as frank as you could have been. You couldn’t control how your wife chose to respond.”

“Yeah, but I could have tried harder!” Harry insisted. 

“Perhaps,” Draco shrugged. “And perhaps that would have only served to push her further away.”

Harry rubbed a hand across his forehead, digging into the tense muscles above his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he relented, unconvinced. “I guess you could be right, I don’t know.”

“And you may well never know. I’m not persuaded that torturing yourself is the wisest way forward.”

Harry screwed up his mouth and dropped his feet to the floor heavily. He held his hand out for Draco’s whisky tumbler, and was pleasantly surprised when Draco relinquished it. Harry savoured a burning sip. 

“Where is the line between letting yourself off the hook and refusing to acknowledge stupid mistakes?” he wondered. “Like, how do you know if you are being disciplined and being cognizant of your flaws and trying to make much needed changes or if you are just mercilessly berating yourself and making things worse?”

“It’s a valid question. I would look at the results, personally,” Draco offered. “If what you’re doing is actively helping propel you forward and you have things that you can point to as proof of your growth, then splendid. If it’s making you feel like shit all the time, it may be time for a new approach.”

The words settled heavily in Harry’s stomach. He wasn’t confident he’d chosen the most helpful path, lately. “But then what do you do when you bollocks things up? Ruminate on what you did wrong, or just forgive yourself instantly and refuse to dwell on it? But if you do the latter, how do you keep from doing the same stupid thing all over again?” he urged, feeling suddenly very unworldly. 

“Surely there is a middle ground,” Draco pointed out. “One in which you acknowledge the mistake, sort out why it happened, apologise if you absolutely must, and determine how best to keep from repeating the same offense again, and _then_ forgive yourself?”

“Merlin, you make being human sound so bloody easy,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. He threw back the remainder of the Firewhisky and set the glass on the table with a frustrated thud. “But I suppose I could work on that. Maybe. Well anyway. I’m sorry for the whole mess that was this evening. I’m sorry for putting you in that position and for Ron’s behaviour.”

“He’s hardly blameless in that,” Draco pointed out. “And as much as I would like to deny it, I provoked him. Something I will _consider_ avoiding in future.”

Harry gave him a rueful smile. “You’re terribly good at it, is it the thing. If I wasn’t so damn stressed about it all, I might have taken a moment to appreciate it. The whole bloody pantomime with Remy? You got under Ron’s skin like you did it for a living.”

“Well, bad habits, et cetera,” Draco remarked primly.

Harry snorted at that, then shook his head. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that people just...get along?”

“You’re terribly optimistic for a hardened veteran.” Draco gave him a patronising smile. 

Harry laughed humourlessly. “Sometimes the war feels like another life. I find myself thinking...Merlin, it couldn’t have been me who did those things, not really. Is it like that for you?”

“No,” Draco responded simply, facing Harry with a bold kind of clarity. “I’m keenly aware that the decisions I made then directly informed all that followed.”

“Did you never think to leave the country? Start fresh?” Harry didn’t know where this forthrightness was coming from, this sudden impulse to ask these probing questions. But Draco never seemed to mind. Quite the opposite, it was as though he preferred to address difficult things head on, to examine them without flinching.

“I thought about it,” Draco allowed. “For Scorpius’ sake, I almost convinced myself to go, but in the end it was for his sake I stayed. I wanted him to know you can make a life from ashes, that past mistakes didn’t dictate one’s future, and that redemption is achievable—or at least I thought it was. Weasley tried his best to impress on me that that was not the case.”

“He’ll come round,” Harry said quickly as a spike of guilt flashed through him. “I really think he will. It’s my fault for not telling him. Hermione will set him straight, she always does. He means well, he’s just...protective.”

Draco’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “Yes. As am I.”

The cold spur of guilt transformed into something much warmer and far more pleasant. Harry felt a bit afraid to examine it too closely, lest it be fleeting. 

“This isn’t how I’d hoped the night would end,” Harry admitted. “Will you stay anyway?”

Harry had been so caught up in the new, hopeful feeling that he’d failed to register the footsteps in the hall, or the shift of Draco’s gaze. 

“Why would he stay?” Al demanded, his mouth full of apple. Scorpius stood beside him, examining an apple of his own. 

“You’re father is needlessly worrying about my head injury,” Draco answered seamlessly. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Al closed his lips and swallowed. “Sorry, Professor,” Al said automatically, wiping his mouth with his forearm. 

“Manners, Al,” Harry sighed. 

“What?” Al asked, his brows furrowed. 

“Are you going to stay?” Scorpius interrupted, his little face pinched with worry. “If your head hurts maybe you should, just in case.”

“Hm,” Draco considered. “Very well, I’ll humour you both.”

“The guest bedroom’s made up fresh,” Harry said, combating a blush as he thought about the reason why he’d laundered those sheets so recently.

“Excellent,” Draco stated. “Finish your fruit, boys, then teeth, please, and get to bed. And Scorpius, you’ll need your medicine, so let’s do that shortly? It’s late.”

“It’s a weekend!” Al pointed out. 

“And school begins in two days. Won’t hurt to get used to early nights and early mornings,” Draco said firmly. 

“Hm,” Al parroted Draco’s little habit, plopping down on the sofa beside Harry. “Well, maybe. But what were you talking about? Sounded serious or something. Was it war stories? Jamie said you’ll tell us now, if we ask. Well, he said you’d only tell him because he’s the oldest, but I said it wasn’t true and you’d tell me, too. I’m not scared.”

“Merlin, I—” Harry began, flustered.

“There is a war story I could use some illumination on,” Draco interrupted. “Now that you mention it. Something you brought up this evening in fact, Potter.” 

Harry was so bloody tired and wrung out he couldn’t even make sense of what Draco was alluding to. 

“Yeah?” Al’s face lit up. “Please, Dad? Just one story.”

“Not tonight, sweetheart,” Harry replied. “It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, but pleeease?”

“Tomorrow,” Harry conceded, “how’s that? Jamie might want to hear such things, too, and I wouldn’t want to leave him out.”

Al bit down on his apple with an obnoxious crunch to illustrate his disappointment. 

Remy blinked sleepily beside Draco. 

“I’d best get Remy settled,” Harry decided with a yawn. He kissed Al on the head. Al huffed irritatedly in response. “Night, love.”

“Night, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Scorpius.”

“Night, Harry.”

**_/// ///_ **

“Once again, your abysmal hostessing skills have made themselves known.”

“Huh?” Harry startled awake, completely disoriented. In his field of view was his ceiling, his bedroom candelabra and Draco’s mildly amused face. 

Harry was lying crosswise on his bed, his feet still on the floor. 

“Shit,” he groaned, struggling into a seated position. All his limbs felt heavy. “Sorry. I swear I only meant to rest my eyes for a moment.”

Draco’s lips twitched affectionately. “It’s fine. Al and Scorpius are pretending to be asleep and keeping their whispers to a tolerable level. I shouted down the stairs at James to let him know that you and Remy had made it home without incident, and for him to not stay up too late. I got a series of grunts in return. That’s the best I can hope for, I would imagine.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “More than I get half the time.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He dropped his face to his hands with a second groan and scratched his head before forcing himself to his feet.

Suddenly, Harry realised how close they were standing. Draco didn’t back off, and instead appraised him in that cool, detached way of his that always made Harry feel like he’d forgotten to put on trousers. 

“What?” he muttered, shifting awkwardly. 

Draco raised a hand to his cheek and Harry stilled, covering the hand with his own. He took a breath, his eyes falling closed. 

“Nothing,” Draco said, and kissed him. It began slowly at first, almost leisurely, but Harry felt starved for it, having spent the evening not being able to even touch the man, beyond those few furtive moments after the accident. He was so bloody tired, and yet he wanted Draco so fucking much. He was terribly aware that this was the last night for them to pursue anything sexual for probably ages, and he’d had tentative, daring plans, had things worked out. Perhaps he could still rally himself...

Remy gave a mucousy little snort from his crib and Harry startled backwards. 

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I forgot he was there for a minute. I think I feel weird about shagging in the same room as my kid.”

“And I don’t fancy sex with a man who’s wont to fall asleep before either of us finishes.”

“I wouldn’t—” Harry started, but the word was cut off with a yawn. “Fuck. You’re right. I’m sorry. Merlin, when did everything become so exhausting? I feel like I could sleep for a week and it wouldn’t be enough. And now this weekend I have to somehow pack up the boys for school and start to figure out what Lily and I will want in Hogsmeade and what should go in storage. It never ends, does it?”

“Not really, no,” Draco agreed. “But Scorpius and I can help with the packing, if you like.”

Harry chewed on his inner cheek. He wanted to say yes so badly. It felt like relief, letting Draco take care of...things. He dropped his gaze, running a hand over the back of his head. “You’ve already done plenty,” he pointed out. 

“Yes. So?”

Harry squirmed at the direct questioning. It made him feel embarrassed and warm and foolishly hopeful. “So I can’t keep expecting that from you.”

Draco tilted his head, eyebrows raised imperiously. “Why not?” he demanded, because Merlin forbid he ever let Harry get away with not saying exactly what it was he was thinking. 

“Well, because!” Harry retorted, flustered. “What if I get used to it? I’ll get used to it and learn to depend on it, and then you’ll get tired of me never doing things for you and having rubbish ideas like inviting you round and not telling Ron and giving you bloody brain injuries and my outrageous children and their abhorrent manners and endless nappies—you might think you won’t get tired of it all, but you will, anyone would. Hell, even I’m tired of it some days, and it’s very nearly everything I ever wanted.”

“Potter,” Draco reproached him, “I distinctly remember you standing in my library mere days ago, convincing me to give this thing between us a try. And now, it sounds an awful lot like you’re trying to scare me off.” He wasn’t put out, Harry noticed, merely entertained. He was touching Harry again, the pad of his thumb softly tracing the line of Harry’s jaw, a knuckle resting on Harry’s chin as he did so.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, defeated. He leaned into the gentle pressure, despite his reservations—he was rather afraid he could become dependent on the other man’s touch, too. He’d miss that just as much. Merlin! Why did he have to forecast disaster like this? Why couldn’t he just enjoy whatever Draco felt like giving him in the moment and deal with the fallout when it arrived. “Maybe I am, a bit. Because maybe you were right. We don’t know what we’re doing, or at least I certainly don’t, and the last thing I want is for you to resent me. And now you know how badly I can bungle things up. So maybe scaring you off would be better than prolonging the inevitable.”

“Something you ought to know about me, Potter: I don’t scare easily. Not once I’ve made up my mind. I said I wanted to try, and I meant it. One mistake doesn’t change that, and neither will a whole string of mistakes. And besides, I’m used to half your children already.” Draco’s hand curled around the side of Harry’s neck, warm and unwavering. Harry settled, feeling another wave of grateful relief as Draco leaned in, and kissed him lightly. “Now, why don’t you stop catastrophizing and get some sleep. I’ll wait until the boys whisper themselves out and then I’ll come join you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, embarrassed by the needy, reassurance-seeking note in his voice.

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

As far as plans went, Harry thought that was a pretty good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your kind comments on the last chapter and I'm sooooo sorry this took so long. School has been very challenging lately. But I've already started on the next one so hopefully it won't be quite such a long wait...but midterms are upcoming so I can't make any promises!
> 
> Shout out to my miracle-worker of a beta, MimbelWimbel for all her help and grammatical insights! All remaining mistakes are entirely my own!


	26. Twenty-Six - Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CWs: (contains spoilers so scroll past if you wish to avoid!)  
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> discussion of cannon compliant child abuse and violence (and also the c word which is definitely not cannon compliant)

It took two hours and some stern words before Al and Scorpius finally ceased their chatter. When at last they had, Draco walked through the sprawling, quiet house, extinguishing the remaining lamps, and slipped into Potter’s room. The man was asleep, a single candle burning in its sconce on the wall. Despite having the whole bed to himself, Harry was contained to one side of it, either from habit or because he was awaiting Draco’s return. 

Draco took a step closer, and the floor creaked underfoot. Harry stirred. 

“Hey,” Harry murmured. “You coming to bed?”

While that was, of course, exactly what Draco had been intending, the question gave him pause. This aspect of their domestic routine must seem commonplace to Harry, who had spent year after year lying next to someone at night, but it was very foreign to Draco. So many of his encounters had been fleeting, and even in Brazil, with his guide, the coupling had been companionable and pleasant—with no inclination toward holding one another after the fact. 

And yet, with Harry, it was so different. Draco realised that until very recently, he'd rather considered the need for human affection beneath him. It was something he’d lived without as a child, and therefore it must certainly not be essential for him now. Indeed, he’d privately thought that pursuing anything akin to tenderness might somehow detract from his abiding independence. But nights spent with Harry didn’t leave Draco feeling at all bereft of autonomy. Instead, looking out for Potter in such a physical way, along with everything else, made Draco bold and certain and capable. 

“Draco?” Harry prompted. There was a gentle note of concern in his voice that Draco found he wanted to soothe at once.

“Yes, of course, I’ll just be a moment,” he replied. Harry gave a sleepy hum of acknowledgement and rolled onto his side.

Draco grappled further with his own thoughts as he prepared for bed, washing and undressing down to his vest and pants. This was a risk. Despite the warning charms he put in the hallway outside the bedroom door, and the lock he flicked on the doorknob, there was a chance that he and Harry could be discovered by the children, which would complicate things sooner than necessary. 

Draco sighed. He usually wasn’t this foolish. And yet...the candle flickered, dancing along the broad, curved musculature of Harry’s arm. Draco could almost feel the warmth of it around him. This cuddling business was a novelty still, and it gave him an uncannily gratifying sense of being needed. Merlin, that this powerful and decent man turned to him, let himself depend upon him, wanted him...it left Draco breathless. He shook his head. He must be tired, allowing himself to think such fanciful tosh. 

He looked back to the bed, conflicted. Harry had fallen back asleep. Surely he didn’t need Draco now. So the question was, could Draco permit the risk just to satisfy this newfound craving? 

He’d justified the first night they’d slept together. Harry had been lonely and upset and staying had been something Draco could just _give_ him. The second time, they’d all but passed out in their post-sex haze. And now...Draco didn’t have an excuse this time. No, this time he was staying because Harry had asked, and because it was a closeness Draco simply _wanted_. 

Draco attempted to crawl beneath the covers without disturbing Harry, but it was a fruitless endeavour. One heavy, welcome arm curled round Draco’s midsection, pulling him nearer. 

“Sorry about earlier,” Harry muttered, nuzzling into Draco’s shoulder. “I get a little gloomy when I’m overtired.”

“Really?” Draco drawled affectionately. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Harry replied darkly, tightening the arm around Draco’s waist and yanking him bodily nearer. Draco huffed in surprise.

“Brute,” he accused. 

“Problem?” Harry asked mischievously. 

“Not a one.” Draco wriggled in Harry’s arms, turning over so they were slotted together, and allowed his hand to slide over Harry’s in the darkness, the pad of his thumb skating along the raised scar he’d seen in the dining room. “What’s this? I noticed it earlier, but it didn’t seem the right time to ask.”

“Oh, that?” Harry’s words were warm on the back of Draco’s neck. “Forget it’s there more often than not, these days. Just a little memento from Umbridge.” 

Draco didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. There had been a bitter edge to the last sentence that Draco didn’t like. It planted a seed of apprehension just below his sternum. “Umbridge?” he repeated. “That awful Defence woman?”

“You didn’t think her that awful, if I remember correctly,” Harry chided, the lightness to his voice perhaps a little forced. Draco found the valiant front to be just so typically, endearingly Potter. 

“Oh, I knew she was awful,” Draco corrected. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the power she allotted me.”

Harry chuckled. “You really are kind of shockingly honest sometimes.”

“When it suits me,” Draco sniffed demurely. He found he liked making Harry laugh, how the other man would shake his head at Draco’s audacity. “But I’ve not connected the dots. What does your hand have to do with that great pink bullfrog?”

“She was trying to get me to shut up about Voldemort’s coming back. She used a...I don't know exactly, an evil, nasty sort of quill.”

For a moment, Draco couldn’t think of what Harry spoke. An evil quill? Then it hit him. “A Black Quill?” he demanded.

“Maybe,” Harry shrugged. “What’s that?”

“There was a rather gruesome story my father told me as a child. Something about a pirate who mapped out his loot using his own blood. He then burned the parchment, leaving a tattoo on his side for reference. If I remember correctly, he was hunted down and skinned, and a flesh map then decorated the walls of the captain’s quarters.”

“Merlin, he told you that as a child?” 

“I’m sure he thought there was a lesson in there somewhere.”

“What an arse. It’s impossible to be a perfect parent, but you’d think he would at least endeavour not to be an utter villain.”

“You’re deflecting,” Draco pointed out. He appreciated Harry speaking the word aloud, he found: villain. Narcissa had never been half so frank in naming Lucius so. Her warnings had been full of euphemisms and futile attempts to soften reality. ‘Your father has a temper,’ she would say, or ‘mind your father today, pet. He’s in one of his moods.’ As though Lucius’ emotions and behaviour were an act of nature: something one could only weather and endure—never alter. But this new label, _villain_ , it fit, somehow. Lucius was an aberration of everything a father should be, and purposefully so: he chose that path, chose cruelty, and reigned as tyrant over his wife and son. There was nothing natural about it. 

Never mind. Draco didn’t wish to speak about his father this evening. Or ever, really. His childhood was a sea of bleak memories and suffocating shame. It served no purpose to dwell. 

“A bit,” Harry agreed. “I didn’t exactly ask her what the damn thing was called.”

“It siphoned your blood as ink?” Draco pressed. “Carved the words into your skin? Is that what this is?” He pressed his thumb into the words etched into Harry’s hand.

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

Something grim and incandescent flashed inside Draco. It felt a lot like anger.

“Black Quills are classified items!” he protested sharply. “In Medieval times, criminals were made to bleed themselves dry with those things. That’s hardly suitable punishment for a child!”

“Yes, well, from what I heard, she was a cakewalk compared to the Carrows, so I should count myself lucky.” Harry went to bury his face in Draco’s neck, presumably in an effort to end this conversation, but Draco wasn’t having it. He wrenched his head around, while fumbling for his wand to cast a _Lumos_. He scrambled to a sitting position, clasping Harry’s hand in his lap, scrutinising it. The faded script below Harry’s knuckles was cramped and difficult to make out in the low light. The skin there was thickened with tiny lumps. 

“Merlin, Potter, your penmanship is dreadful,” Draco muttered, aiming for levity in an effort to cool the burning rage writhing within him. “What does it say?”

Harry murmured darkly. “I wasn’t exactly going for calligraphy. _‘I must not tell lies_.’”

“The cunt,” Draco hissed. He considered what he would do if he found out a colleague was torturing one of Draco’s students in such a manner. Or worse, if someone tried such a thing with Scorpius—Draco couldn’t promise he’d keep himself from violence. 

“Merlin!” Harry responded. 

“Well, she is. Only don’t tell Pansy I said that or I’ll be in for a lecture.” Draco rubbed at the scar, as if it were a scuff mark he could simply erase. There was so much of Harry’s past he would like to scrub clean. He pictured Harry in a dim classroom, alone, blood trickling freely as he opened the flayed skin again and again. Draco was sick with fury. “Couldn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because Pansy Parkinson and I are such close mates,” Harry commented dryly. “And no, I, er...didn’t have a lot of reason to trust most adults when I was a kid. And the few I did sort of trust usually weren’t in a position to help me. And I was proud, I guess. I wanted to bear it, didn’t want her to know she was getting to me.”

Draco’s heart lurched at the words. He could have said the very same about his own early years. How had he not realised how very similar he and Harry had been? They’d both been trapped in homes where cruelty was commonplace, leaving them to contend with the chronic, consuming anxiety that came with not knowing when the next blow would land, physical or otherwise. 

Draco had learned to live with the resentment he felt towards his own parents. Occasionally, he’d recall another horrid moment of his father berating him, or worse, and his mother sniffling nearby, tacitly allowing it. Those memories didn’t surprise him any more. But hearing of this barbarism enacted on Harry summoned all his anger back at tenfold its previous strength. 

“It’s alright,” Harry offered. Draco’s hands were trembling where they touched and it must have given him away.

“It’s not,” Draco spat. Harry’s eyes opened wide and Draco cursed himself inwardly. Now he’d gone and rattled the man, which was hardly his intention. He took a breath and pressed the scar to his lips reverently. He extinguished his wand, and settled back into bed. Harry came willingly when Draco pulled him in, his cheek to Draco’s chest, his head tucked beneath his chin.

“I’m sorry that happened,” Draco murmured, soothing himself by running fingers through Harry’s mess of dark hair. 

“Yeah, well.” Harry shrugged again. His nonchalance shook Draco all over again, but he modulated his emotions better this time, not wanting to cause further distress. “It was a long time ago. We’ve all been through far worse. Just a flesh wound and all that.”

“Do your children know?” Draco inquired quietly.

“Hm?” Harry shifted closer, pressing into Draco’s touch.

“How you got this scar?”

“Nah, I don’t want things like that filling their heads,” was Harry’s casual response.

“Well, surely they know about this one,” Draco remarked, coursing gentle fingers over the lightning bolt tucked away beneath Harry’s fringe. 

“Jamie does, and Al’s probably guessed. I told Lily it was a work accident.”

“Oh, for hell’s sake, Potter—” Draco sighed with frustration. 

“She gets herself worked up,” Harry protested. “She has nightmares. I don’t want that for her.”

“You realise every student at Hogwarts knows more about you than your own children do? And with you wandering the halls, your past is going to come up more. How exactly do you think that is going to make Al and James feel?” Draco was frustrated now. He knew Harry’s intentions were sound, but the fallout could be socially devastating.

Harry pulled back, resting his face on the back of his hand. He looked up at Draco, chewing his lip. “You really think it will be like that?”

“I’ve taught at that school for nearly a decade, Potter, yes. No one gossips more than school children with no source of outside entertainment!”

“Shit,” Harry breathed. “Well, I’ll have to tell them something tomorrow.”

“Yes, I think that’s wise,” Draco urged.

“Will you...help?” Potter asked. Draco reached for Harry’s hair again, sweeping it away from his face thoughtfully. 

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to start. I’ve never been open with them about this, even though I ought to have been. I don’t like to talk about things we went through. Even with Ron and Hermione I avoid it, and they were there beside me for so much of it.”

“How come?” Draco inquired. 

Harry’s eyelashes fluttered closed as he exhaled heavily. “It’s not who I am, not anymore. I don’t feel like Harry Potter, prophesied Chosen One, war hero, or any of that rubbish. I never wanted all that, despite what you used to think. That chapter has ended. Now I just want to be a dad to my kids, you know? And try this professor thing on and see how it fits?”

Draco dragged a thumb across Harry’s cheek. 

“Hm,” he said. 

“What?” Harry demanded. 

“I just think it’s a bit amusing. All I ever wanted was to be extraordinary. I worked myself to the bone just to earn a professorship and a scant slice of academic renown. And then here _you_ are, the most extraordinary wizard of our times, your own professorship all but falling in your lap, and what’s more a celebrity, a figurehead, just desperate for normalcy.”

“I...you’re...that’s not what I...” Harry slumped, hiding his face in Draco’s cotton vest. “I didn’t mean to...fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry. Fuck...I. Sorry. Just, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Draco soothed, pressing into the tense muscles at the base of Harry’s skull. “It’s hardly something you can help. And I don’t mind if you want to be terribly ordinary around me. Save for when you’re stringing me up with your magic and all that.”

“Fuck,” Harry murmured again into Draco’s chest, but when he looked up, he was grinning sheepishly. “That sounds pretty perfect, actually.”

_**/// ///** _

Remy woke them both early. Harry padded out and came back with a bottle, while Draco rocked the fussing baby. 

“I’ve got him,” Harry offered, holding out his hands. “I went to bed early; you’ve barely had any sleep, plus you’ve got that head injury.”

“Yes, alright,” Draco allowed, transferring him the infant. Harry sat back down on the bed, propped up by the headboard, his legs crossed in front of him. Draco tucked himself under the warm covers. 

“Wait,” Harry said suddenly. “Sorry. I just...I had one more question.”

“Yes, what is it?” Draco replied, sleepy but obliging. Potter wasn’t always the best at asking for what he wanted.

“You said I owed you a war story, that I’d said something that made you curious, only I can’t sort out what you were talking about.”

“Oh,” Draco remarked, shifting onto his side to look at Harry fully. “You said you were there that night. When Dumbledore was killed. Did you mean it?” 

“Ah. Right, yeah. Yeah, I was there, on the astronomy tower,” Harry repeated. “Dumbledore cast a body bind and hid me beneath my Invisibility Cloak.”

The narrative still wasn’t fitting together. “Yes, but _why_ were you there, even? Were you tracking me again, like you used to?”

“No, actually. We’d…” Harry drifted off. He looked down at Draco, as if considering his words. “Well, we’d just come back from tracking down a Horcrux.”

“So those were real then?” Draco confirmed. He’d heard the whispers after the fact—the Dark Lord’s affinity to that great snake had always been slightly odd—and they’d certainly tracked with what he knew of him. “It’s not just a rumour?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. “I don’t tell many people that, so I hope you’re not getting any ideas.”

“Certainly not,” Draco promised. “I’ve no interest in outliving my child.”

“Well, that’s a relief. So anyway, yes, they were real. Items mostly.”

“Mostly. But not all? The snake, I’m guessing?”

“Yes, thank Merlin for Neville. And if you’re asking that, I trust you’ve heard the other rumours. The ones about me.”

Draco sat up, tucking his legs beneath him. He wanted to be at Harry’s level for this. “Something my mother said, once, before she was locked away. She said you ought to have died. That perhaps something else died within you.”

“Sort of,” Harry nodded, slowly. “I...was one, too. Not on purpose, I don’t think, but a bit of his soul leached into mine, and then he killed it off, right before your mum found me.”

“Merlin, Harry—” Draco reacted with a visceral revulsion. “I could barely withstand being in a room with him, let alone sharing a body. What—what was that like?”

“I don’t know,” Harry attempted. He switched Remy to his other arm and blew out of a huff of air. “I didn’t know he was there, I don’t think he even did, not for a long time. Then I started having memories, seeing through his eyes. I thought he didn’t know, but he’d figured it out, he used it against me. I—sorry. Can we not talk about that bit? Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Draco assured him quickly, putting a tentative hand on Harry’s thigh. He was relieved when Harry didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s fine,” Harry insisted, even though of course it wasn’t. “You didn’t. I shouldn’t have fallen for his twisted games.” 

Draco wanted to argue that point, but he’d promised Harry he’d drop it, so instead he stayed silent. 

“Anyway,” Harry continued after a long moment. “I wanted your advice on something else, too. Do you think...hm. Should I tell Al and Jamie about the Horcruxes?” 

“An interesting dilemma,” Draco replied. “I’d err on the side of no.”

“Yeah?” Harry sounded relieved, like he’d been thinking the same thing. “How come?”

Draco turned the question over in his mind for a long moment, debating with himself about how much he should reveal. “Albus is a clever child, Harry,” he began carefully. “Exceptionally so, when he wants to be. But he can be a bit blind to consequences.”

Harry let out a dry chuckle. “That’s the understatement of the year. Just a bit?”

“Fine, shockingly blind to consequences.”

“Yeah, that’s more like Al.”

“Yes,” Draco conceded. “And brilliant as he is, and curious as he is, well, perhaps giving him ideas on how to sever his soul and live forever might not be the most responsible tidbit to put before him at this stage, hm?”

“That’s what I figured. If I give him the chance, he’ll create half a dozen Horcruxes by Tuesday, no matter what I threaten him with.”

“Quite,” Draco agreed, a smile tugging at his lips when he thought of Al’s sheer bloodymindedness. “So the Horcruxes, is that why you weren’t around?”

“For seventh year?” Harry picked up the thread. “Yeah, we were hunting for them.”

“Everyone thought you were in hiding.”

“I know,” Harry sighed. “But I couldn’t very well tell people what I was up to! We don’t need the public knowing that Horcruxes are a viable thing, unless we want a new Voldemort popping up every generation.”

“Very true. I’m ashamed to admit, but I had almost convinced myself you were a coward.”

Harry snorted. “Well, that hardly surprises me.”

“And then you saved my life,” Draco continued.

Harry wriggled uncomfortably. “Leave it, would you? It was a lifetime ago.”

“Not for me,” Draco countered. “I’ll never forget.”

Harry swallowed, shifting his leg out from under Draco’s hand. “That’s….that’s not why you’re here, is it? Some misguided attempt to repay some debt you think you owe me?”

A hint of panic sparked in Draco. Fuck, that was not what he was intending to convey. He repressed the reaction, convincing himself this was just another manifestation of Harry's anxieties. “I don’t think seduction is the typical method of atonement,” he pointed out, forcing a calm sort of amusement. “I can assure you that my motives were much more selfish.”

Harry relaxed again. “Right. Sorry.”

Remy had fallen asleep. Draco stood and walked around the bed to take the baby from Harry’s arms. He placed him back in his crib, then turned back around to face Harry, who had swung his feet over the side of the bed. His hair was a disaster. It made Draco smile.

“Sorry,” Harry said again. “Feel like a bit of berk now.”

“Yes, well,” Draco chided playfully. “You should.”

“I think...” Harry began tentatively, “I think I’m still trying to understand why you do so much for me when you really don’t have to.”

“Harry,” Draco gave a long-suffering sigh, “my unfortunate stint as a Death Eater notwithstanding, when have you known me to do anything for any reason other than because I wanted to?”

“You want—Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ , you great pillock. Come here.” Draco gripped Harry by his faded t-shirt and tugged him to his feet. He pressed his lips to Harry’s neck and was pleased when he felt the other man shiver. “I want to do all sorts of things for you, just as I want to do this,” Draco illustrated, kissing a line up to Harry’s jaw. “And this.” His mouth pressed against the corner of Harry’s. “And especially this.” Their lips met.

They were falling ever deeper, Draco knew, braiding together the strands of their histories into a comforting tether. These pieces, once given, could not be revoked, and yet...he couldn’t bring himself to regret the indelibility of it all. Indeed, it was likely he’d been spooled in by exactly that. Draco had known so little of permanence when it came to people, that even the barest _hint_ of such a thing speared through him, anchoring him in place. He’d not walk away, he realised, not of his own volition.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, when finally they drew apart. His expression was open and tinged with awe. “Yeah, I want that too.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and for their kind comments! Another dialogue chapter....I'm finding it tricky to navigate the things that readers of the books know, but the characters don't necessarily know about each other! Anyway, the next fic will have more plot than this one, I promise. (Also, a reminder to please subscribe to my author account if you want to read the next fic, since this one is drawing rapidly to a close!)
> 
> A special thanks to the world's greatest beta, MimbelWimbel, for all her help with this chapter.
> 
> Also, some of the description of Lucius and Narcissa's behaviour was adapted from an article I read this week which really resonated with me. Check it out here: https://lithub.com/on-finding-the-freedom-to-rage-against-our-fathers/


	27. Twenty-Seven - Harry

Al didn’t let them get halfway through breakfast before starting in on Harry. 

“Are you going to tell us war stories, then?” he asked, a glass of orange juice in hand and a determined expression on his face. Beside him, Scorpius was peering expectantly at Harry, and even Jamie looked up from where he was hunched over his toast.

“War stories?” Lily echoed, her interest clearly piqued. 

Harry sighed. He’d really hoped he’d get away with at least keeping the truth from his daughter for another year. If Al and Jamie got a story, though, Lily would insist on hearing it, too, so Harry might as well get it over with. 

Harry glanced at Draco across the table. The goose egg on his forehead had eased significantly overnight, much to Harry’s relief, and there was only a faint bruise remaining. He’d not gone home yet that morning, and so instead of the floral print button up from the evening prior, he’d borrowed one of Harry’s old T-shirts. It was black faded to grey, and much too big for him: the collar was warped and hung low, exposing his collarbones. Harry tried not to let that draw his focus. He forced himself to flick his gaze up to meet Draco’s. Those grey eyes were serious as he gave Harry a single nod of encouragement. 

“I want to hear war stories!” Lily urged, impatient by the lack of response. 

“Yes, alright,” Harry agreed. He shifted Remy, who was mouthing curiously on a spoon, to his other knee. Harry didn’t know how to begin. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you already know?” he ventured. 

“Scorpius and I looked you up in the library last year,” Al confessed. Scorpius emitted a tiny, miserable moan and looked down at his plate, flushing. 

“Teddy’s told me some things,” Jamie hedged with a shrug. 

“Alright,” Harry reflected, still at a loss. “And was there, I don’t know, something specific you were curious about? A, er, particular event or what have you?”

“Did you kill anyone?” Al blurted out immediately, as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “It sort of sounded like you killed Voldemort, but some other books said you didn’t, exactly.”

Harry supposed he should have seen this question coming, especially knowing his second son. 

“I disarmed him at the same time as he fired a killing curse at me. His spell backfired, ending his life.”

“Why did it backfire?” Al inquired at once.

Harry exhaled. He wasn’t sure how much of all this he should get into. “Er. That’s a bit complicated, but generally, the wand he was using wasn’t keen on attacking me.”

“Why not?” Lily asked. Harry could tell it was going to be a longer conversation than he’d been hoping for. “Because you’re pure of heart?”

Draco coughed on a sip of tea. Harry shot him a brief glower. “Not quite, love,” Harry told Lily. “Though it is kind of you to think so. More because...well, this particular wand saw me as its master.”

“How come?” Lily again. Harry’s should have known this would be how things went. His children were relentless on a good day. 

“Because I’d disarmed its previous master.”

“That was you, right?” Scorpius whispered, tugging on his father’s sleeve. 

“Hm,” Draco agreed. 

“How come Scorpius knows all this and we don’t? You never tell us anything!” Jamie accused petulantly. 

“Yes, and I’m sorry,” Harry explained patiently. “But I’m trying to tell you now.” He took another bolstering sip of tea. 

Jamie didn’t like to wait. “Why were you the previous master of the wand, Professor?”

“Because it was the Elderwand!” Scorpius jumped in instead, clearly excited to know something the other children didn’t. “Father disarmed Headmaster Dumbledore before he died! And then Father was disarmed by Harry when he was held prisoner at our house! So Harry was the wand’s master after that!”

With this new information at hand, the Potter kids all started in at once:

“You were held prisoner?” Jamie asked, looking suddenly rattled. 

“I’ve read that story,” Lily exclaimed excitedly. Daddy, do you really have the Elderwand? Can I see it?”

“Wait, if Dad was its master, how did Voldemort get it in the first place?” was Al’s contribution. 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. Just another chaotic morning at Eiderdown End. He couldn’t believe he would actually miss this, but Merlin, he would. His heart clenched. He was more grateful than ever that he’d accepted the post at Hogwarts. How he’d managed months at a time without seeing Al and Jamie, he couldn’t properly fathom, not now. 

“If you would all stop peppering your father with questions, perhaps he could get a word in edgewise,” Draco suggested. 

Four little faces turned to Harry’s, and for once, they kept their mouths shut.

“Right,” Harry began uncertainly. “Maybe I should start at the beginning?” He took a steadying breath and passed Remy off to Jamie, who took the baby without arguing, for once. “When I was a baby, my parents—your grandparents—were killed by Voldemort.”

He could see another ‘Why?’ forming on Al’s lips, but Scorpius but a hand on his arm to silence him, and Harry soldiered on, relieved. 

“He then tried to kill me.” Harry glanced at Remy, clueless and drooling in his brother’s arms. For the first time, Harry truly imagined the depth of evil it would take to harm a creature so blatantly helpless. A shudder of revulsion coursed up his spine. 

“But you were a baby!” Lily protested. She wriggled her chair closer to his, and Harry put an arm around her shoulders. 

“I was,” he agreed. “I was completely helpless against him. But a parent’s love is strong. My mother died to save me, and her magic protected me, reflecting the killing curse back at Voldemort, and weakening him for many years, but not destroying him outright. I was then sent to live with my mother’s sister and her family—you know my cousin Dudley? His parents. And so long as I lived under their protection, my mother’s magic stood, and Voldemort couldn’t kill me.”

Harry was relieved that only silence followed his words. It gave him time to decide how far to skip ahead. There was the business with the Philosopher’s Stone and Sirius, but there would be time for that another day. Today, he would try to be concise. 

“When I was in fourth year, I competed in the Triwizard Tournament,” he continued. Jamie perked up. There had been Hogwarts heroes sent off to one when Jamie was in first year, and his school spirit had been high, reporting back news of it to Harry with every owl. Harry explained his encounter with Voldemort in that graveyard: how Cedric had been murdered without a second thought, how Harry’s vein had been opened in an effort to turn his mother’s own protecting magic against him. He told of Voldemort’s resurrection and his own narrow escape back to Hogwarts. 

By the end, Lily’s face was buried in Harry’s side. He stroked her shining red hair. This was exactly the sort of thing Harry had hoped to avoid. What good did it do to speak of such things? Especially to his sweet girl who saw so much of hope and joy in the world? He kissed her head. “Don’t worry, sweetpea,” he promised, “this story has a happy ending. The happiest, actually, because it ends here at this table with all of you.”

Despite his reassurance, Al and Scorpius looked pale. Scorpius’ hand was white where he still gripped Al’s forearm. Harry found he didn’t feel anything at all, beyond concern for his children. He was certain that if he opened the door to grief over Cedric’s death and the terror of that night, all the other losses would come trundling in alongside it and overwhelm him, like they used to in the early days after the war, when sorrow felt heavy as mustard gas and twice as deadly. No, better to keep this all at arm’s length. 

He looked instead to Draco, the familiar face grounding and solemn. Draco was still and serious, studying Harry, as though he’d not heard this story before, and perhaps he hadn’t, not like this. What bits he had heard from Harry as a teenager, he’d doubtless ignored or dismissed as trumped up heroics.

“I tried to tell everyone what had happened,” Harry pushed on, “but very few were ready or willing to listen to me. It wasn’t until Voldemort and his followers staged an attack at the Ministry a year later that the truth came to light. Then the Second Wizarding War began in earnest. Many Muggles were murdered. Prominent witches and wizards were disappeared. Voldemort gathered his forces and I don’t know what else. We—Professor Malfoy and I—were sixteen, and trying to survive sixth year in a country at war.”

Harry shrugged helplessly, the memories threatening to corrode the calloused layers of detachment which kept him sane and functional. He reached for his mug. 

“We were each confronting something much larger than ourselves,” Draco added, picking up the thread and giving Harry a much needed break. “While your father was trying to get the world to listen, I had been charged by the Dark Lord to murder Professor Dumbledore,” Lily pulled back from Harry’s side far enough to hazard a curious peek at the professor. “He had taken over our home, had clear control over my father and mother. He told me they’d die a most cruel death if I failed at the task he’d set before me, and so would I. I believed him. I’d seen first hand what he was capable of by then. I was terribly afraid.”

“But you didn’t kill Dumbledore,” Al pointed out. “Snape did, but only because Dumbledore told him he could, because he was, like, a double agent. We read about that.”

“He did,” Draco agreed. “I had the opportunity, but not the will. And Snape even managed to convince the Dark Lord to spare me and my parents. Our existence was a bleak one from then on, however. The Dark Lord was not a forgiving man, and he used my failure as an excuse to torment us.”

Scorpius screwed his pursed lips to one side of his face. The story may have been familiar, but it clearly still made him uneasy. 

“I’m grateful that he did,” Draco went on, surprising Harry. “Being out of his favour and witnessing his cruelty shook me to the core, and made me question the beliefs my parents took to be self-evident. It was then that I realised he had never been working towards anything just or righteous: He wanted only a world of drones to do his bidding. His end ambition was nothing short of unadulterated power, the pure-blood nonsense was only a mask he hid behind to garner support. Had my family remained in his good graces, I fear it would have taken me much longer to reach such a conclusion.”

“What did you do when you figured it out?” That was Al, always quick, always curious. 

“I was unfortunately not in much of a position to act upon these revelations. Or if I was, I hadn’t the disposition to put myself at risk.” 

Harry could remember Draco as a boy, especially that last year they’d been together: his sunken eyes and too-prominent cheekbones. Harry had known the Slytherin was struggling—his fear and dread had been tangible—but he’d failed to realise the nuance of it all. Draco hadn’t just been wracked with worry over the task and his and his parents’ safety, but his world had been upended, his beliefs burned to ash, and he’d had no one to turn to. At least throughout the war, Harry had been surrounded by good, decent people, people who’d love him. During those same long months, Draco had been assessing his family’s priorities and beliefs and finding them lacking, only once he did, he’d been left with nothing, save his own self and an iron will to survive. Harry felt a tug of sorrow: how lonely, how precarious, that must have been.

“What did you do once everyone knew there was a war on?” Jamie directed the question at Harry. “Teddy said you and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron had to go away for a while, that you had a secret mission.”

Harry put his new revelations aside, knowing he would return to examine them later, when his children weren’t pelting him with questions. The story came easier to Harry then. “Voldemort’s power was tied to certain objects,” he explained. “Your aunt and uncle and I sought them out to destroy them.” 

“Whoa, what sort of objects?” Al asked, perking up. 

Harry ignored the question, detailing the capture and escape from Malfoy Manor, the transfer of the Elderwand’s allegiance, and Voldemort’s death. He just needed to get through this. He spoke of what he could remember from the Battle of Hogwarts, the carnage and the names of the fallen. He avoided telling them about the killing curse that should have ended him, saying only that he feigned his own death to get close to Voldemort, springing back into action when given an opportunity. “And so his killing curse backfired when met with my spell, and killed him,” Harry said at last. It felt a little anticlimactic. “The war was over.”

There was silence at the breakfast table for a long moment. Harry’s children considered him. Jamie looked grim and off kilter. Al and Scorpius still clung to one another, and Lily was glued to Harry’s side. Even Remy seemed to have sensed the shift in the room, his spoon forgotten and his big eyes turned towards Harry.

“Well,” Harry started, trying desperately to think of something light and meaningless to say, but Jamie didn’t let him. 

“Where were _you_ during the final battle, Professor?” 

Harry froze. Draco could be as honest as he wished with his own child, but he didn’t owe Harry’s kids anything, which was precisely why Harry had left any mention of Draco out of the narrative. 

“Oh, I’m sure the professor doesn’t wish to be cross examined, Jamie, love,” Harry attempted, but Draco waved away his protests.

“On the contrary, I assure you,” Draco insisted casually. “The truth must out. Your father, in an effort to be gracious, no doubt, omitted my part of the story. I expect he did so because all I was doing was skulking about the castle looking for him.”

“What were you going to do with him?” Lily demanded, her eyes bright and her little chin jutting out protectively. 

“That’s a very good question,” Draco answered. “I was telling myself I would bring him to the Dark Lord and redeem myself.”

“But you didn’t even like Voldemort any more!” Jamie objected. “You said you’d realised he was in the wrong!”

“I never liked him,” Draco corrected. “He was not a man a person could like. He was simply someone they could fear.”

“So why would you have given Daddy over to him if you were afraid of him!” Lily seemed genuinely distressed, and Harry squeezed her closer. 

“Honestly,” Draco said carefully, his gaze locked on Harry’s. “I don’t believe I would have.”

The oxygen in the room seemed to disappear entirely. Harry was pinned in place beneath that determined stare. Draco spoke the truth, it was unmistakable. 

Harry worked hard not to choke as air flooded his lungs again: His body had remembered to breathe, even if Harry’s brain had forgotten it was a necessity. “What would you have done instead?” he croaked.

Draco was very still, except for the elegant, capable fingers of his wand hand, which toyed with a teaspoon, a nervous tell. “I think,” he confessed, “I had some fanciful idea of convincing you to run away from it all with me. I loathed you, but I loathed the thought of you dead much more. I wanted something so utterly different to the world I had known those last couple of years. Something _good_. There was not a thought in my mind of you defeating him, and so I desperately dreamed maybe we could just go some place new and start fresh, somewhere we’d never be found. I’d hoped we’d grow to be friends, maybe, or at least we’d no longer be adversaries.”

“I couldn’t have,” Harry whispered. Draco’s admission was an impossible thing, unwieldy and dangerous, and yet Harry didn’t doubt the sincerity of it for a moment. Draco had been another scared child, just like Harry. Things between them could have been so different, if only Harry had known how to _ask_. Perhaps he might have even spared the boy those two long years of suffering at Voldemort’s hands. But no, another useless wish. The past was the past. “He would have found us.”

“I’m aware. Still, I would have tried. I reckoned that he’d been trying to kill you for sixteen years and he’d failed again and again. If anywhere was safe, it was wherever you were.”

“Why didn’t you? Try, I mean?” Al prompted, sounding every bit as breathless as Harry felt.

“I wasn’t alone,” Draco stated at once. “I was a coward; I let bravado steer me. And then a spell went wrong and there was Fiendfyre all around us, and your father yanked me up on a broomstick and saved my life.”

“Draco,” Harry protested, his voice hoarse and raw. Rescuing Draco hadn’t felt significant in the moment. It was a chore, something that needed to be done, nothing more. The memory had been so overshadowed by Fred’s death soon after that Harry had all but forgotten it. He had been too brittle with adrenaline and his own impending demise to feel anything but glancing irritation. 

“What?” Draco challenged. “It’s the truth. I never did a damn thing for you. I made your life miserable for six long years. I sided with prejudice and hate. You had no reason to risk your neck for mine, and yet you did. You plucked me from certain, excruciating death without a second thought. It may have just been a raindrop in your sea of heroics, but I have not forgotten it, and I never will, Potter, not ever.”

Harry’s eyes were hot with unshed tears. He rushed to standing because, shit, he was going to fucking cry. His sudden movement left Lily looking affronted. He pressed another hurried kiss to her head, blinking rapidly, trying to waylay the inevitable.

He hadn’t cried when Ginny left, not in front of the children. He had wanted them to know he could handle things, that he was solid and stable and could carry the horrible burden for them. He worried his tears might frighten them even further. He cast his mind back. The only time he could remember ever really crying in front of his kids had been when Arthur Weasley had died. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, because his grief had made sense then, it was something they could understand. 

This brutal, tender feeling, this yearning to repair the past, this newfound knowledge that he’d played a fundamental part in shaping who Draco was today: this enduring, generous man he so respected...Merlin, Harry couldn’t expect his kids to understand that. 

“I, er,” he swallowed, helpless. “I need to fix Remy a bottle.”

The hot tears slid free before he’d even made it to the kitchen. 

_**/// ///** _

Remy didn’t need another bottle, and everybody knew it. Harry hid out in the kitchen for a little while, doing the dishes by hand and trying to ignore the fact that he was still bloody crying. His glasses were foggy and his nose was stuffed and he felt like a right mess. 

He heard the shuffle of feet and he turned his head. Jamie was there, hands in his pockets, looking down. “Hey,” he muttered. 

“Hey,” Harry echoed stupidly. His hands were wet so he shrugged his shoulders one at a time in an effort to wipe his face with his sleeves. 

Jamie didn’t say anything more, he just grabbed a tea towel and lifted the frying pan off the rack to wipe it down. 

They worked like that, side by side in silence until the kitchen was clean and Harry’s eyes had finally, blessedly, stopped leaking. 

Jamie passed Harry the towel so he could dry his hands. “Thanks,” Harry said. 

His son gave a standard grunt in response. Harry fished out a handkerchief and blew his nose, repocketed the thing and leaned back against the counter. Across from him, Jamie did the same thing, his arms crossed. 

“Well,” Harry exhaled at last, running a nervous hand through his hair. “There’s some war stories for you, I suppose.” He gave an unsteady smile. “Do you wish I’d told you earlier?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie responded carefully. “I think…” He paused and licked his lips and Harry smiled at the sparse growth of stubble around them. Maybe it was a cliché, but Merlin, where had the years gone? They’d taken away his joyful kid and left this brooding, aching teenager in his place. Harry felt a rush of love so strong he thought it would take him out at the knees. “I think I was expecting it to be more like an adventure and less just...sad.”

“I’ll tell you some of the adventures another time,” Harry promised. “Like how we broke into Gringotts and escaped on the back of a dragon.”

Jamie looked at him like maybe he was pulling his leg. 

“Wizard’s honour,” Harry assured him. “Your Uncle Ron will back me up on that one.”

“Gringotts?” Jamie questioned dubiously. “Bloody hell, Dad.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned, but then it fell away. “But truly. Most of my stories are sad because it was _sad_ , love. I lost so many people I cared for; Teddy was left an orphan. I was away for months, with no idea who was still living and who may have fallen. I missed your mother, and I worried about her constantly. It was such a horrible time. There was endless grief. I was certain I had no future. And that’s all it was: sad and scary and miserable. And maybe I was wrong to keep all that from you, but I’m honestly not sure telling you has done any good, either.”

“It has,” Jamie objected. “I don’t think I understood it before. But I do now, or I’m trying to.” But Jamie’s green eyes were still searching Harry’s own, his brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Harry prompted softly. 

“It’s just...you were my age when so much of it all started, like, they don’t even let fourth years compete in the Triwizard Tournament nowadays—”

“They didn’t then either,” Harry felt obliged to say. “It was a whole conspiracy to get me away from Hogwarts, it had nothing to do with my merits.”

“Oh. Right. Whatever, you did all that before you were even what, 18? Faced down Voldemort multiple times, rode a dragon out of Gringotts, saved the world. That’s only four years older than I am now, and I’ve...well, I’ve, what, won a few games of Quidditch?”

“Oh sweetheart,” Harry protested, stepping forward. “Merlin, don’t you see? I did all that so one day you could have exactly this. Quidditch and your studies are the only concerns I could possibly ever want for you.” He paused to find the words to explain. “I had a wretched childhood, Jamie, love. Truly. I’m not saying that to make you feel sorry for me, just as I didn’t tell you about the war to somehow leave you feeling unaccomplished. What matters to me is you being happy, you never questioning that there are veritable scores of people to watch out for you and guide you and protect you—I didn’t know you and your siblings were who I was fighting for at the time, but I know it now, and it was worth every sacrifice. I want you to have a proper childhood. I know it’s different with your mother gone, and I’m not asking you to not be sad about that, but I want you to grow up loved and safe and fulfilled. Please let me give you that. Or let me try. ”

“I did have that, Dad,” Jamie said, waving Harry away with a touch of embarrassment. “I _do_ have that. I’m alright, okay? I’m still mad and such, about Mum, but it’s getting better, a bit. So, like, calm down, yeah?”

Harry realised his cheeks were wet with tears again, and he wiped his eyes quickly with the heel of his hand. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“You can talk to me,” Harry asserted, feeling suddenly determined to hold onto the bond he’d felt slipping away from him all summer. “If you want. About anything. You know all this, I know you know all this, but just a reminder: Even if you think all you do is play Quidditch, _I_ think you’re incredible, amazing actually. Even when you only communicate in grunts. Even when you torture your brother, and grumble about chores, and refuse to leave the basement.”

“Merlin, so I don’t have any redeeming qualities at all, now?” Jamie growled, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

“Oh, you have a million, only I’ll start tearing up again if I start thinking about how clever and talented and brilliant and darling you are—”

“Okay, okay! Shut up, I get it, alright?” Jamie was smiling fully now, and Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look on his son’s face. Merlin, he adored it.

“You’re a marvel, sweetheart,” Harry said emphatically. He wasn’t kidding. “I love you.”

Jamie huffed out his annoyance. “Yeah, Dad. I know.” His cheeks were pink with awkward self-consciousness and he looked about ready to escape this onslaught of feelings. Nevertheless, before he left the kitchen, he gave Harry a fierce, fleeting hug. 

_**/// ///** _

“Well, Potter, what can I do?” Draco asked. The breakfast dishes had been tidied, Jamie had once again escaped to the basement, and Al and Scorpius had been sent off with strict instructions to get Al’s trunk packed. They stood together in the drawing room, with Remy kicking about on his playmat, and Lily following Harry around like a shadow. Her little face was pinched with worry, and none of the hugs and soft words Harry had bestowed seemed to settle her. He supposed all he could do to ease her anxiety was to continue on as mundanely as possible.

“Oh Merlin, I don’t know. I have a letter from Clearwater here, somewhere, I think, telling me what they’ve provided for the cottage and what we’ll need to bring with us.” He sent out a summoning charm. A drawer in an end table popped open and a folded sheet of parchment sailed through the air towards him. Harry snatched it up when it got to him and he flipped it open, examining its contents. 

Draco stepped in close, his arm brushing alongside Harry’s, under the guise of scanning the letter. Harry appreciated the gesture. They’d not had a moment alone since the conversation over breakfast, and as much as Harry wanted to discuss the morning’s revelations, it seemed unlikely they would get a chance, not with Lily refusing to let Harry out of her sight. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Lily tucked in close to his leg, and Harry stroked her head absentmindedly as he reviewed the letter. 

“Alright, so the cottage is furnished and the basics are supplied, that is handy. We can leave all the kitchenware and whatnot here at the house, then,” he remarked. “Besides clothing and bedding, we’ll just need school supplies, Remy’s things, and whatever Lily wants with her in Hogsmeade.” He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Some books and things, sweetpea? A few favourite toys? Does that sound nice?”

“Do we have to go?” Lily asked, her voice very small. 

“Not right away, LiLu, but over the next week or two, yes, I’m afraid so. It’s part of my responsibility as a professor to live at or near the school. But we can pop back here any time, if you feel you’ve forgotten something. Besides, won’t it be fun to have a second bedroom to decorate?”

The prospect did seem to interest Lily, despite herself. “Maybe,” she granted, but he could tell she’d need a bit more persuasion. 

“I don’t want you to worry, love, truly. Eiderdown End is still our home, and whenever the boys have holidays, we’ll all be here together. It will be good practice for when you leave for Hogwarts next year, hm? I know how much you’ve been looking forward to that!”

“I guess,” Lily agreed, but she still didn’t sound convinced. 

“What’s troubling you in particular?” Harry coaxed kindly. “I know I’ve frightened you with the war stories, but it was such a long time ago, and I made it through, didn’t I?”

“I know you did. I just...I want you to stay here at home, not go to Hogwarts.” Lily whispered. “Bad things happened when you were there.”

“They did,” Harry conceded. “But the man who was responsible for all that is dead and gone, and he has been for longer than you’ve been alive. There’s nothing at all for you to be frightened of. I wouldn’t let your brothers attend if I thought there was any danger. Ask Professor Malfoy, he’s been working there for years! He’d be the first to tell you if he had any concerns.”

Lily’s bright blue eyes shifted. “Is that true? Is it safe?”

“Perfectly safe,” Draco promised with a smile. “Not an unrepentant Death Eater to be found. But, if it will make you feel better, I promise to keep an eye on your father for you. After all, I owe him a life debt.”

“What’s that mean?” Lily demanded, looking cautiously hopeful. 

“Well, you know how he risked his life to save mine? I owe him that in return. So if anything terrible should happen, I’ll do everything within my power to save him. How’s that?”

Harry frowned. This again. Draco’s harping on about it made Harry uncomfortable. He felt Draco’s arm press more firmly against his own, as though he had sensed Harry’s irritation, and Harry exhaled. The words were just to fortify Lily, he told himself. It wasn’t atonement. Draco had promised that, and at some point, Harry was just going to have to believe him. He allowed himself to lean into the touch.

“Yes, alright,” Lily nodded. She appeared solemnly appeased. “Not that I want you to die, either. But if I had to choose…I’d rather it was you getting killed.” 

“Lily!” Harry scolded.

“No offence!” Lilly hurried to add.

“Understood,” Draco replied, as though Lily were being terribly reasonable. “And no offence taken. It is prudent to know one’s own priorities.”

Satisfied, Lily wandered off, seating herself beside Remy, still facing Harry and Draco. She held out a rattle for the baby, and Remy reached for it with pudgy arms. 

“Why don’t I get started on the laundry, then?” Draco decided. “The lot of you ought to have clean clothes for the start of term, and you can sort out what of Remy’s needs to be packed up.”

“Yeah, alright, if you’re sure you don’t mind. I think I have some extra trunks somewhere, so I’ll track those down and get to it.” Harry summoned the wicker baskets of dirty laundry from his room. They bobbed clunkily down the hallway and plopped themselves at Draco’s feet. Harry felt suddenly self-conscious about Draco handling his pants and Remy’s soiled cloth nappies, but he supposed if the other man was put off by the idea, he wouldn’t have offered. Draco, unfussed as ever, took hold of one of the baskets and braced it against his hip. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” Draco told him, as though Harry was being foolish for even suggesting it. Draco’s words from the previous evening came back to Harry then: ‘ _When have you known me to do anything for any reason other than because I wanted to_ ’. Harry had no reason not to take the other man at his word. 

“Right,” Harry swallowed. “Well. Thank you.”

“Hm,” Draco dismissed the gratitude. “I’ll get Al’s laundry to add to this, and I ought to do the linens, too. Consider it done.”

He turned towards the hall, but just as he did, the fire in the hearth flashed green. Harry spun round in surprise to find Hermione stepping gracefully out onto the shabby rug, with Rose and Ron on her heels. Lily leaped to her feet upon seeing her cousin, and rushed over to hug everyone.

“Hermione!” Harry greeted her. 

“Hullo, Harry,” she said in return, stepping in to give his cheek a brief and affectionate kiss. “Hullo, Draco. Glad to see you’re all in one piece this morning. Harry, what with your starting at Hogwarts so soon, Ron and I realised you must have a lot to do, and little time to do it in, so we thought we’d stop by and see how we could help. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Ron seemed to be having difficulty meeting Harry’s eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he muttered gruffly. “‘Course. Happy to help.”

“Oh!” Harry remarked, doing his best to absorb all this. “Well, Merlin, that’s bloody good of you. Thank you. I’m sure I can come up with something.”

“Where’s Hugo?” Lily asked. 

“He’s at Granny’s for the day,” Hermione explained. “I didn’t think he’d really fancy spending his Saturday doing other people’s chores when he could be snacking on biscuits instead. Where are the trunks, Harry? In the attic? Come along, girls, let’s see to Lily’s things.” She ushered Rose and Lily towards the hall, scooping up Remy on her way, and then, in her typical blur of efficiency, she was gone. 

Draco, Ron, and Harry, stood in silence for a long moment. Ron shuffled his feet, furtive eyes flitting around the room, lighting on everything besides his companions. 

“A rather remarkable woman, your wife,” Draco commented into the awkward space. 

That got Ron’s attention. His head snapped up, as though Draco was being facetious, but stopped short at the sincerity present in every aspect of Draco’s expression. 

“Yeah,” he grunted. It appeared to take a great deal of effort. He cleared his throat. “Erm, yeah. She is.”

There was another long pause. 

“Look, ah, Malfoy,” Ron said finally. “About last night…”

The words hung in the air between them and Harry wondered if he ought to step in. He didn’t know the content of all that had been exchanged between the other two men, but he’d seen Ron be nothing short of vicious when his temper was unleashed. Draco’s face remained stony and aloof for a tense moment, but then he shifted back towards Harry, as if deciding upon something. 

“An accident,” Draco replied magnanimously. He flicked the hand not holding the laundry basket dismissively. 

Ron eyed the dirty clothes curiously. 

“Are you doing Harry’s laundry? Actually, you know what? Never mind. Not important. And I’m not just sorry about the accident. I owe you a proper apology for what I did and said.”

“Very well,” Draco conceded haughtily. “Go on.”

Ron looked very much like he’d hoped his previous statement _had_ been the apology, but Harry knew Draco wouldn’t be letting Ron off the hook that easily. 

“Uh, right. I, um, some of the things I said...about your, er, preferences. Not that I know those, or that I should have even assumed, so that’s another thing I’m sorry for, but, ah. I’m not a bigot like that, truly, or, at least I try my hardest not to be. One of my brother’s is gay, you know, and his husband Ralph is part of the family. It’s not something that bothers me, I swear. I just said that to get under your skin, not because I really believe it.”

Harry was surprised, he’d not known Ron had said anything at all targeting Draco’s sexuality. It wasn’t like him. Certainly, he’d shown up on Harry’s hearth rug with a bottle of Firewhisky after Percy had come out and had needed to talk things out a bit, but that was years ago now, and he’d carefully excised any remnants of homophobia in the meantime, at least as far as Harry knew. 

“You know how things like that were bantered about when we were kids,” Ron offered. “A way to really get at a man. You really fucking pissed me off, and it just popped out. But I didn’t mean anything by it, truly, beyond just wanting you to react. So, er, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you, Weasley,” Draco said graciously. “Having used a slur or two in my lifetime, I understand the impetus.”

“Alright. Well, thanks.”

“What else?” Draco prompted. Ron gaped at him, as though he’d forgotten how Draco could milk a situation when he thought he had the upper hand. 

“Oh, erm…”

“Your insulations about the safety of my son, Weasley. I can withstand personal attacks ad nauseum, but I take less kindly to a grown man threatening my child.”

“Shit,” Ron exhaled.

Harry gawked at his friend. “Ron,” he hissed. “What the hell did you do?”

“I’m sorry!” Ron sighed, scrubbing a palm over his reddening face. “I’d had a beer too many and what I said was fucking inexcusable. You must know I didn’t mean it, it was hot air, Wizard’s honour. All I wanted was to piss you off, make you back down. I’d never harm a kid, Malfoy, not ever. I’m all talk, ask Harry.”

Draco turned his head, gazing at Harry expectantly. 

“He is,” Harry granted, then added a hint of teasing to his tone to ease the mounting tension: “A lot of hot air and bluster and absolutely no follow through.” 

“Oi!” Ron protested weakly, but he gave Harry a grateful but grim little smile.

“Very well,” Draco allowed. “I’ll take your word for it, Harry. But there are no second chances on that front.”

“Understood,” Ron nodded. “Well. Oh wait, er, I’m also sorry for saying what I did about your trying to manipulate Harry and such. I’ve no reason to believe your motives to be suspect. You were here when we weren’t and that’s on me.” He looked to Harry, then, expression pained. “Sorry, mate. I should’ve ignored you telling us to leave you be.”

“It’s fine,” Harry promised. “Really, I’m perfectly okay. But thank you. For saying that, and for apologising. I appreciate it.” Harry shifted his attention to Draco, who looked about ready to gloat. He ought not to get off that easy, Harry decided. “Going to return the favour, Draco, do you think?” he challenged. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed as though Harry had betrayed him, and he huffed his disapproval, but he must have seen the earnest intent on Harry’s face, because he stepped towards Ron, his hand extended. 

“You have my apologies as well, Weasley. I intentionally goaded you, and that was beneath me. I think for Harry’s sake, we can agree to get along.”

Ron stared at Draco’s hand as though it might sprout fangs, but with some hesitation, he clasped it in his own. 

“I’ll make an effort if you do,” he relented. 

“That’s all I ask,” Draco agreed. He released Ron’s hand and tipped his head towards the basket tucked under his arm. “Now, I better see to this. Harry, you’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied, “‘Course. Thank you.”

Draco gave his usual hum of agreement and strode out of the drawing room. 

Harry didn’t know what to do with the ensuing silence. 

“Er,” he said, at exactly the same time as Ron started in with a ‘“Look, mate…”

“Shit, sorry, you go,” Harry prompted quickly, wincing at how awkward he sounded. 

“Oh,” Ron grunted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his faded jeans. “I don’t know. Just I’m sorry. And I’m glad Remy’s alright and that you’re doing better.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Yeah, me too.”

They stared at each other helplessly for another, drawn-out moment, and Harry realised he didn’t want to talk anymore about it. He felt talked out, and besides, he and Ron didn’t always need words between them.

“You know,” Harry tried, “let’s leave it, yeah? I fucked up with not telling you, Draco fucked up with goading you, you fucked up with reacting. Hermione’s the only prudent one between us, and really, you’d think I’d be used to that by now.”

Ron gave him a hopeful little half-grin. “Try living with her,” he quipped. “Not easy being wrong 99% of the time.”

“Only 99%?” Harry fired back. 

“Oi, fuck off,” Ron replied, but there was only relief in his voice, and no heat. “Now, I bet you have more things to do than standing around bullshitting with me all day. What’ve we got?”

There was a flash of their old Auror days in the phrase, Ron and Harry reviewing cases early in the morning, strategising over raids on nests of Death Eater holdouts. Those had been exciting, triumphant days, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to miss them, not when he knew how the job cut into Ron’s evenings and weekends: the little things he’d missed in Rose and Hugo’s lives. Ron had been pissed like this when Harry had transferred departments, but that had been ages ago and any lingering resentments had long since cooled. They always did. Harry grinned back at his friend. “Well, something very near as thrilling as solving a cold case: sorting baby clothes into things that still fit Remy, and things that don’t, followed by tossing out nappies that are too stained or ratty to hold on to.”

“You know how to show a bloke a good time,” Ron teased and Harry momentarily froze at the words. Merlin, had Hermione said something? Had Ron found him out? But Ron’s face showed only good-natured cheer and a willingness to reconcile, so Harry forced himself to smile and clap Ron on the shoulder. 

“What more could you possibly hope for on a day off?” Harry asked and Ron snorted amiably. 

As they meandered into the nursery, Harry noted that Hermione had already moved a trunk into the room for the baby’s things. As they stepped through the door, Ron grabbed Harry’s forearm. Surprised, Harry looked up. 

“What is it?” he said. 

“I just,” Ron cleared his throat, blushing slightly. “I just wanted to say thanks. For hearing me out, for forgiving me, for somehow wringing an apology from _Draco Malfoy_ of all people. I’m not sure if I’d be so easy to forget it all, if it was one of my kids who had been hurt.”

“Remy is fine,” Harry reminded him. “And I know you. You can talk a lot of rubbish when your back is up, that’s nothing new, but you’re not violent. I was furious last night, and I’m not exactly pleased to hear what _exactly_ you said to Draco, yet you’ve made an effort to put it right, and that’s not easy, either. Besides, I spent the summer avoiding you and Hermione and I regret that. I shouldn’t retreat like I do, and I know it; I just get all morose and self-pitying. I’m certainly not going to throw you out on your ear now that you’re finally around again to help pull me out of that slump. Let’s not dwell, alright? Just try not to be a total arsehole to Draco?”

Ron shook his head, looking aggrieved but folded his long limbs beneath him and pulled open the bottom drawer of Remy’s butter yellow dresser. “ _Draco_ ,” he repeated, a note of wonder in his voice. “You’ve done a lot to surprise me, Harry, but Merlin, this new friendship of yours really takes the cake.”

Harry shrugged vaguely. “Yeah, well. Things happen.” He reached into the open drawer and pulled out a stack of baby things, setting them within reach of both Ron and himself. “Remy’s five months already, so throw anything with 3M or smaller on the tag over there.” He jerked his head towards a bare expanse of rug. “Anything bigger can go in the trunk.”

Ron made a noise of understanding and starting rifling through the onesies. “Be honest, mate,” Ron said, obviously not done with his previous line of questioning. “What on earth is it about Malfoy that makes you at all interested in his friendship? He can’t possibly be pleasant to be around considering his just as fucking imperious as ever and twice as priggish.”

Harry chuckled at Ron’s assessment, understanding why Ron would have come up with the interpretation he did. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I thought the same thing when he first showed up. But with time, I’ve found that he’s actually sort of, like, secretly generous although he’d never admit it, and he gives a fuck about his job and the kids, and we can just...talk. Neither of us had a good time of things growing up, so I think we understand each other on that level, and there’s shared history, in a way, with school and the war, and all. Probably helps that he’s divorced, too, so, you know, it’s nice to have someone who’s been through it and come out the other side.”

Ron’s hands stilled on the pile of tiny clothes between them. “But you’re not,” he noted carefully. “Divorced, I mean. Like Gin could come round, you might still…”

“I’ve not heard from Ginny in three full months, mate, you know that,” Harry said softly. “She cut me out and, what’s worse, she left the kids, without giving them any explanation. I have had to promise them time and time again that nothing they did caused her to leave, even though I’ve no idea if that’s the truth. No matter what it is she is going through, I’ll not forgive her for making them think that. I can’t. Do you know what it’s like to have to reassure your children that they are worth loving?”

“No,” Ron replied, voice rough. “You’re right, I don’t.”

“If she wants back in the children’s lives, I’ll discuss that with her, and with them, but for my part, I’m done. I’ll be seeking an attorney to set to work on finalising things once I’m settled in Hogsmeade.”

Ron looked for a moment like he was going to argue, but then simply cleared his throat. 

“I know she’s my sister,” Ron muttered, “but you’re my best mate and you’re every bit as much family to me as she is. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll stand by you. You know I will.”

Harry couldn’t help but wonder if those words would still hold should the other man learn of the true nature of his and Draco’s relationship, but then he shook the thought away. Ron loved him, Harry knew that to be true, and they’d weathered much worse together. He would tell Ron about Draco, he determined, should their tentative attachment continue past the first term. Until then, it would just be a lot of fuss for what, from the outside, would appear as nothing more than a summer fling. Harry didn’t see the point in getting into it. 

“Thanks,” he told Ron instead. “Truly. I appreciate it.”

“‘Course,” Ron replied dismissively, looking down and grimacing at a questionable stain on the pyjamas he was holding. “Eurgh! I don’t care what size this one is, I’m throwing it in the toss pile.” He dramatically flung the little garment away. “Oh! Merlin, I’ve only just thought, with your fancy new salary, does this mean I’ll be able to drag you out to more than one proper Quidditch match this season? It’s Chudley’s year, I can just feel it! Their new seeker shows promise, mark my words.”

“You’re clearly delusional,” Harry chided. “But yeah, I suspect I can swing a few games at least.”

The idea sounded suddenly appealing, Harry found. The fresh air and the enthusiasm, a pint or two, and Ron’s company, they were all things to look forward to. He’d make it a priority, he decided. Ron beamed at him as if he knew what Harry was picturing and launched into a detailed analysis of the current team roster. Harry could swear things between them felt, at last, very nearly normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is following along! I know I'm not updating as quickly as I would like, but hopefully I am making up for it with significantly longer chapters!
> 
> Really really love hearing from you all, I so appreciate your time and thoughtfulness. 
> 
> Shoutout to my extraordinary beta, MimbelWimbel for her patience with this beast of a chapter! 
> 
> There are likely only about two chapters left in this fic before I move onto the sequel, which will pick up exactly where this story leaves off and focus on Harry's first year teaching at Hogwarts. I think it will probably be told through four perspectives: Harry, Draco, James and Scorpius, and is definitely a lot more plot-heavy than this one (and will move at a less glacial pace!). Anyway, I'm excited to write it and am so hoping you will like it, too!


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